Date:         Thu, 11 Aug 1994 01:10:42 EDT
 
 
Justice, Being Blind
 
A Forever Knight Story
 
 
By Susan M. Garrett
 
 
 
Chapter 1
 
 
     He lifted the glass of blood to his lips, sipped at it,
then set it to on the workbench.  Nick picked up the brush
that he'd left it on the table, then walked back to the
canvas.
     It was wrong.  It was too red.  Much too red.
Blood red.
     The light had never been blood red.  Not until . . .
after.
     The picture was perhaps two meters wide and a
meter high, an awkward and unorthodox size for a
painting.  He'd learned long ago to stretch his own canvas,
he prepared and worked in odd sizes out of habit.  Having
gone beyond the rules of the mortal world in so many
other ways, this minor act of rebellion was harmless in and
of itself.  No one would see, no one would care.
     But he'd know.  And sometimes that made all the
difference.
     Nick brushed the back of his hand against his
forehead wearily--he'd gone straight to his paints after
coming in from work last night.  He'd already placed a
primer and basecoat a few days before.  But it was while
he was driving around the city last night, trying to pick up
information on the murder of a member of a car theft ring,
that he'd finally realized what the painting was supposed
to be.  It had been maddening to force himself to attend to
his duties, to pay attention to witnesses who were lying or
mistaken, to go over the depressingly sparse facts just one
more time in an attempt to find a clue, all the while
knowing that the painting was waiting for him.
     And then, when he'd run into the loft, tossed his
coat and badge and gun to one side, kicked off his shoes
and picked up his brush--
     It was gone.
     The canvas was there.  And the paint.  And the
brush.  But the painting that he'd envisioned, the brilliant
light he'd known was in there just waiting to be brought to
the surface, was gone.
     At first he'd simply dabbed in spots of color,
hoping to tease it to the surface, bring it to reality.  Hours
of dabbing had done nothing, so he'd changed brushes and
techniques, pushing and pulling the oils across the canvas,
digging down to the basecoat and pulling up forgotten
layers and then burying them with fresh, new paint.
     Still, nothing.
     There had been no thought for rest, only the need
to discover that perfect image that had haunted him in the
car.  It eluded him, resting just on the periphery of his
memory, but he couldn't fix it to the canvas.  As the
daylight hours passed, he'd found his frustration increasing
. . . along with his inability to capture the light.
     It was gone.
     Nick tossed the brush back to the work bench and
picked up the glass of blood.  It was time to go back to
the station, to try to make some sense of the ways of
mortal kind, to apprehend the guilty and let the wheels of
justice deal with the details.  He had no doubt that the
instant he turned on the light and sirens, racing to a
murder scene or a crime in progress, he'd know <exactly>
what he had to do to capture the light in the painting.
     And that it would escape him again the moment he
picked up a paintbrush.
     The process of cleaning the paint from his skin--
that was one shirt he'd never wear to work again--and
getting ready for work did little to brighten his mood.  He
hoped it would be a quiet night and he'd be able to spend a
good portion of it stuck at his desk, poring over files and
filling out paperwork.  It would be just enough distraction
to give the creative part of his brain a chance to wander
and, maybe, to track down that gem of inspiration that
had come and gone so quickly the night before.
     But by the time Nick arrived at the station, there
were more people in the squad room than he'd had ever
seen during change of shift.  They'd centered themselves
on a desk at the far side of the room.  Bewildered at the
commotion, he leaned against the doorjamb and rubbed
his hand along the edge of his chin.
     Schanke entered behind him, passing by on his
way to his own desk, a cup of coffee in his hands.  He
gestured toward the back of Nick's hand.  "What's that?"
     Turning his hand over, he saw the spots of red and
blue paint that still lingered, just to one side of his
knuckle.  Self-conscious, he rubbed the spot with his free
hand and grinned.  "Must've missed that.  Spent most of
the day on a painting."
     "Strike while the inspiration's hot, huh?" asked
Schanke, continuing the few steps to his desk.  Setting
down the coffee, he looked up again.  "It's nice to know
Mister 'fresh-from-the-dry-cleaner' misses a spot now and
again."
     "What gives?"
     Looking up, Schanke followed his gesture to the
people crowded around the desk at the other side of the
room, their conversation rising and falling in sporadic
waves.  "Vacation schedule."  He paused, looked at Nick
curiously, then smiled and snapped his fingers.  "That's
right, you usually don't get to see the feeding frenzy.
Downtown sent up the schedule later than usual this
year."
     Nick stared at him in disbelief.  "That's what this
mob scene's about?  Vacation assignments?"
     "You should have seen it an hour ago.  I thought
Bertha from Central Accounting was gonna take out that
new kid who transferred in from Metro Downtown.
Something about her nephew's cello recital."  He shrugged
and lifted the coffee from his desk, taking a sip.  "You
gonna get in there?"
     "I think I'll wait till it's down to a dull roar," said
Nick, after a moment's hesitation.  "I usually fill in what's
left."
     "You can afford to."  Schanke sighed.  "Myra's got
it into her head that we're spending a week at her sister's
this year.  It's like planning the invasion of Normandy all
over again."
     Nick grinned.  "Can't be that bad."
     "You haven't met Myra's sister--she makes
General Patton look like a conscientious objector."  He
nodded as Nick winced.  "Yeah.  I met her before the
wedding and <still> married Myra.  You wanna talk about
true love."
     "You don't look like a man who's about to go one-
on-one with a Sherman tank."
     "Between seniority and a little quick elbow work,"
Schanke mimed a thrust to one side with his elbow, "I got
the week Myra wanted.  You know, you've got a couple
years under your belt, now--you should get in there and
grab a three day weekend or something.  You deserve a
day in the sun, instead of taking left-overs all the time.  It's
only fair."  He looked up suddenly, through the squad
room door to the front desk.  "Uh-oh, donut delivery."
Schanke cast a quick look at the mob still huddled around
the vacation schedule.  "Won't be a cruller standing if they
get wind of it.  Better make my move now.  You want
anything?"
     Nick shook his head, dismissing the question with
a wave of his hand.  "No thanks.  I--"
     "Why do I even ask?"  Schanke rolled his eyes
heavenward, then gave his partner a grin as he returned
the coffee cup to his desk.  "Just cover my back, okay?"
     "You got it."  Chuckling under his breath, Nick
watched Schanke dash to the donut boxes that had just
been delivered at the front desk, but his attention returned
almost immediately to the crowd gathered around the
vacation schedule.  It was beginning to thin, uniforms and
civilian personnel drifting away with either grins of
triumph or disheartened expressions.
     He took a step closer to the melee, peering over
the shoulders, catching wisps of conversation as last
minute deals were made, days traded and favors granted
or owed.  Maybe he <did> deserve a day in the sun, as
Schanke had said.
     But for a moment, all he could see was a memory
of his fingers straining across a wood planked floor, trying
to grasp the square of light that shone in from a window,
just beyond his reach . . . .
     Someone ran into him.  He was aware, at first,
only of a number of notebooks and sheets of paper flying
through the air.  "I'm sorry, Detective Knight!  I wasn't
watching where I was going and the Captain said he
wanted this ASAP--"
     The voice and face were familiar--Kevin Seeley
was one of the part-time sketch artists they employed
when they needed a witness description turned into a
picture from which they could ID a suspect.  Nick knelt
down on the floor and started gathering up the notebooks
and paper.  "No harm done.  And that's 'Nick,' okay?"
     "Nick."  The young man looked up at him with a
shamefaced grin.  "It's all over the place, isn't it?"  He
glanced anxiously down at the stuff gathered around him,
then at the door to Stonetree's office.
     "Go," prompted Nick.  "I'll clean this up."  He
gestured toward the mess with a sweep of his hand, then
added, "Go on!" when Seeley hesitated.
     Grabbing up a few pieces of paper and a drawing
board, Seeley muttered a quick, "Thanks," then continued
at a run to Stonetree's office.
     There was paper everywhere.  Nick collected a
handful, not really seeing what he was picking up, until a
sketch of a young black woman caught his eye.  Leaning
back on his knees, he held the pencil piece to the light and
looked at it.
     It had been done in light leads and the clarity of
detail and line were excellent.  If this was Seeley's, he'd
managed to capture not only a proportionate likeness, but
a quality of character and spirit.  The woman's smile was
both engaging and enchanting.
     That's when he realized that the notebooks were
actually sketchbooks.  And the papers that had been
scattered across the floor were covered with everything
from doodles, to sketches, to finished drawings.  He took
more care, then, as he picked up the papers and shuffled
them into a neat pile, grimacing at the creasing in some
that he'd grabbed in haste when they'd first fallen.
     They weren't perfect.  Nor were they particularly
expert.  But Nick found himself taking more time with
each new drawing, each new discovery, searching out the
curve of a line, or the flow of a shaded shadow.  There
was more grace and beauty in these few rough sketches
than he'd seen in his many years of traveling both time and
territory.  There was a quality of life in them that he found
amazing, stunning.  And each new picture was another
breath.
     It was only a matter of a few minutes before he
rose, artwork in hand, still trying to grasp, figuratively and
literally, this sudden discovery.  It was then that Seeley
returned with his drawing board.  For a moment, Nick
couldn't quite reconcile the talent evident in the drawings
with the very ordinary young man with whom he'd briefly
chatted upon occasion.  But it was Seeley's glance back
over his shoulder that gave him an opening.
     "The burglary or the auto theft?" asked Nick,
inclining his head toward Stonetree's office.
     "Auto theft.  We lucked out.  Car was parked
under a streetlight, witness has twenty-twenty vision, and
she got a good look at him through an open window--no
glare."  Seeley smiled broadly.  "Those don't come along
too often."
     "Can I see it?"
     Seeley flipped over the clipboard.
     Nick took a look at the features, his memory
sealing them in time and place--if he ever came across this
particular car thief, he'd be able to identify him in the blink
of an eye.  Then, he took another look at the picture,
using a criteria of judgment that had less to do with crime
than culture.  Even here, in the sketch of a suspect, he
could see something that presaged not what Seeley was,
but what he would become.  "Nice tonal balance."
     "For a perp ID?"  Seeley flipped the clipboard
around and held it at arm's length in surprise.  He
grimaced at it.  "I guess.  Thanks."
     "You got a minute?" asked Nick, reluctant to hand
back the sketches Seeley reached for.
     "Now that the boss has his picture, yeah."
     Nick walked over to his desk and sat down,
placing the stack of sketches and sketchbooks on his
blotter.  Gesturing for Seeley to lean over his shoulder, he
pointed toward a watercolor sketch in one of the open
notebooks.  "This is good."
     "It's wrong," said Seeley, frowning.  "I just can't
put my finger on it--"
     "The perspective's off here."  Nick indicated the
keel of the sailboat in the picture, tracing his finger just
along the edge.  He looked up and saw Seeley's dark eyes
narrow as he leaned in, staring at the picture.
     Then he smiled ruefully.  "Yeah.  Now I see it.
Thanks.  That's been bugging the hell out of me.  Couldn't
figure out why, though.  Guess you just need another eye
to take a look, now and again."
     "It's not important," said Nick, dismissing the
error.  "What's right about it is this--and this."  He traced
the light glinting from the waves and the reflection off the
bright hull of the boat.  "You did this down at the
harbor?"
     "Yeah.  Got a few hours between classes on
Tuesday and Thursday.  Nice days it's a great place to
sketch.  Paint, if I'm able."
     Nick tapped the sketchbooks with his hand and
looked up at Seeley.  "Can I take a look?"
     Seeley shrugged and took a step back.  "Sure.  I
don't want to bother you--"
     "Believe me, it's my pleasure."  After carefully
going through the single sketches, Nick then turned his
attention to the notebooks.  They were filled with partial
landscapes, character sketches, bits of light and shadow,
just about everything in the city that surrounded them,
from the architecture, to the faces of the denizens of the
park, to the traffic on Younge Street.
     He made comments as he flipped through, pointing
out errors or complimenting Seeley on the use of tone or
line or color.  The artist hadn't perfected technique yet,
but he had the eye and an ability to capture place, tone,
and character in a few simple lines.  It was amazing,
fascinating . . . .
     And more than a little surprising.  Nick frowned
grimly as he realized that he'd met Seeley over a year ago,
had even sat in on sessions when the artist had been asked
to transfer a witness' description of a suspect, but had
never suspected the young man had such talent, such life
in his work.  He'd studied enough over the centuries to
recognize a gift when he saw it.  And although Seeley
hadn't yet mastered his art, he would . . . and soon.
     It was the light, the light that he'd been trying to
capture.  Seeley hadn't only found the light and fixed it to
the page, but had made it work for him.  In each piece it
was different--subtle in some and bold in others--but there
was a brightness and intensity of which he could only
dream.  And Seeley used it like a plaything or a tool
whose contours and curves had been molded to fit the
shape of his creative mind.
     Again and again, Nick kept flipping back to the
watercolor sketch of the sailboat.  When he'd finished
browsing through the last of the sketchbooks, he left that
one open to the picture and reached into his jacket for his
wallet.  "Can I buy this one from you?"
     Seeley seemed stunned.  He stared down at the
piece then back at Nick, who had his wallet in hand.  "It's
just a sketch.  And, like you said, the perspective's off--"
     Schanke returned, with two donuts.  Dropping
them to his desk, he said, "Hi, Kevin.  That auto theft
done?"
     "Picture's in the Captain's office," said Seeley,
straightening slightly.  "But I've got a photocopy."  He
handed the clipboard to Schanke.
     "I'm serious," pressed Nick, gesturing down at the
watercolor.  "I'd like to buy it from you."
     Schanke rose slightly from his chair and looked
over at Nick's blotter.  "Oh--must be one of those artist-
to-artist things.  Nice boat.  Belong to anyone I know?"
     Seeley hesitated at Schanke's comment, then
looked back at Nick, eyes wide.  "You draw?"
     "Paint."  With a grin and a sense of absurdity, he
flipped over his hand and showed Seeley the spot of color
his wash-up hadn't managed to dislodge.  "Oils.
Abstracts, mostly."
     "You should see his loft," commented Schanke.
"Real <art>.  Huge, really huge-big things.  In color."
     "Canvases," corrected Nick.
     "I'd like to see them sometime," said Seeley.
     Now it was Nick's turn to hesitate, remembering
that painting in his loft that was only begun and yet over
done.  He had some art in him, but nothing like <this> . . .
.  Looking down at the watercolor sketch, he mumbled,
"They're not much--"
     "No, really.  Here--"  Seeley picked up the
notebook and carefully removed the sketch, which he
handed to Nick.  "We'll trade.  You can have this . . . if
you'll let me run through your work some time."
     "I'm getting the better end of the deal," warned
Nick.  But, as he looked down at the sketch in his hand,
his chest glowed with a feeling not unlike pride--someone
actually wanted to see <his> work.  "We'll set up
something--an evening next week sound good?"
     "Perfect."  Seeley reached past him and picked up
his sketches and books from the table.  "Thanks for the
encouragement."  Leaning over Nick's desk, he took the
clipboard from Schanke.  "Better get this down to
dispatch."
     "Sure.  Good job on that, by the way," said
Schanke.
     Seeley grinned, then nodded at Nick.  "Next
week?"
     "Right."  Nick turned to watch Seeley leave, then
his attention returned to the sketch in his hands.  There
was so much light in it!  In comparison, the abstract he'd
spent his daylight hours agonizing over had less life than a
child's finger-painting.
     "Good kid," said Schanke.
     "Talented kid," corrected Nick.  So much light . . .
.
     "Is that going to be worth something, someday?"
     "It's worth something now."
     "How much?"
     With a frustrated sigh, Nick leaned back in his
chair, letting the sketch fall gently to his desk blotter.
"Why does it always have to come down to money?  If it
speaks to you, means something to you, then it's worth
something.  You have no appreciation for art."
     "I do, too," protested Schanke.
     They both looked up as bedlam erupted at the
front desk.  A vice cop entered, two hookers in two.  The
women were protesting more than vehemently about their
indisputable innocence.
     Schanke grinned and pointed.  "Now <that's> art."
He rose from behind his desk, and straightened his tie.
     But as he passed Nick's desk and headed out of
the squad room, Nick picked up a file folder and slapped it
against Schanke's chest.  "We've got work to do.  That
auto-theft ring?"
     "Oh, yeah.  Right."  With a sigh and a disappointed
frown, Schanke returned to his desk, clutching the file.
"But where do you go when your lead suspect's been
iced?"
     "Back to square one," said Nick.  Echoing
Schanke's frown, he looked down at the files on his
blotter, but the watercolor again caught his eye.
     Back to square one.  Back to the light . . . .
 
     Candle wax dripped down upon the parchment he
was reading.  Nicholas swept his hand through the blob of
hot wax, ignoring the momentary flash of heat against his
skin.  Clarity was important--the momentary pain of a
burn couldn't stop him, <wouldn't> stop him from his
studies this night, especially if what he suspected might be
true.
     The line of Latin ended in mid-sentence.  He
looked up, distracted, then down the massive oak table
that he'd covered with parchment, maps, and charts during
his work of the past three weeks.  It was here somewhere.
He'd purchased the whole of Georg Faust's discourses on
the alignment of the heavens and their effect on mortal
and immortal affairs.  True, the man's reasoning was
faulty, his Latin corrupt, but his ideas were nothing short
of inspiring.
     Nicholas along walked the length of the table,
reaching for likely parchments at random, reading them,
then tossing them to the floor in his haste to continue his
train of thought.  The long, fur-trimmed robe he wore
over his shirt and hose brushed other papers and maps
from the table, as did the sleeves of the gown, but he paid
no attention to the fallen items.  Feverishly, he continued
his search.
     And, just as he'd decided that he'd been cheated,
that the document merchant had held back the final pages
of the rare script in the hope of extorting more money
from him, he found the page he sought.  Raising it to the
air, he brought it to his lips and kissed it, then threw
himself into one of the heavy, high-backed wooden chairs
and ran his finger down the line as he read.
     Each word gave him hope, each sentence led his
smile to broaden.  Within minutes, he discovered that his
initial suspicion had been correct--it <was> today.  Or,
rather, this next dawn.
     The candle flame flickered and he looked up, more
concerned for the well-being of his parchment than the
loss of the light.
     Janette stood in the open door, a trace of red upon
her lips.  The wan light of the candle set aglow the gold
threads in her gown and the cowl formed of small metal
links that held her braided hair from her face and neck.
Her skin was pale and fairer than the snow that covered
the sleepy German <Stadt> where they'd found lodging,
while LaCroix played his political games.  The sleeves of
her gown were puffed and cut and slashed and tied with
so many ribbons he knew it took her well over an hour to
fasten them all.  But if she chose to keep up with the ways
of fashion, it was her right to spend as much time as she
liked.  For the moment, he was content to watch her
beauty glide toward him through the darkness.
     And come the dawn, he would see her in the light
for the first time.
     She was frowning as she waved her hand at the
paper scattered about the floor and the table.  "What a
mess."
     Nicholas swung his leg idly against the arm of the
chair, sitting sideways despite the discomfort.  "It doesn't
matter."
     "It <does>.  You know LaCroix likes things tidy.
And you--"  Janette walked around him, running her hand
along the length of his beard and the side of his neck
lightly as she passed him.  "You haven't shaved for days.
And I very much doubt you've dressed properly for
weeks--I haven't seen you in your coat  and breeches for
at least that long."
     "I've been busy searching for this."  He brandished
the parchment at her, with as much joy as if he held the
formula for the Philosopher's Stone or the universal
solvent in his hand.
     She cast an anxious look at him over her shoulder.
"And have you fed, recently?"  When his only answer was
to rise to his feet and walk to the table, she moved to his
side quickly, catching his arm.  "Nicola, you <must> feed.
You'll starve yourself if you continue this way.  Leave
your studies for an hour and come with me.  There are
many at the tavern and the hour is late.  They'll be
returning home soon.  Such easy prey and their blood
thick and strong with brown ale."
     Her words sent a thin knife of hunger through his
innards.  Nicholas grabbed the edges of the table, the
parchment crumpling beneath his fingers, to keep himself
from falling to the floor.  She was right, he'd neglected his
feeding.  But what did it matter, what <could> it matter,
when he'd found part of the answer?
     Making a sound of disgust, Janette reached
beneath his hand and removed the parchment.  She
scanned it quickly, then tossed it to one side of the table.
"Nonsense," she told him.
     Nicholas darted forward as the paper sailed too
close to the flame of the candle for his comfort.  He
caught it just in time.  "It's not nonsense.  It's fact," he told
her, carefully smoothing out the paper with the flat of his
hand.
     "It's astrology."
     "Alchemy," he corrected.
     "Does it matter?"  Janette gestured disdainfully
toward another parchment, covered with alchemical
symbols.  "It's nonsense and it's always been nonsense,
meant to comfort the fearful hearts of young women and
old maidens, promise them bright futures with strong,
handsome husbands and sound children.  While the truth
of it is they end up chained to doddering
<Burgermeisters>, die wailing in childbirth, or end up as
crowing fishmongers, on the docks."  The hard lines of
her face softened when he looked at her reproachfully and
she leaned her weight against him.  "Nicola, this is only a
party trick, nothing more.  Let it be and come hunt with
me."
     He placed his hand over hers and stared past the
flame of the candle, into the darkness.  Did he dare tell her
what he hoped to be true?
     When he looked in her eyes, saw the concern
there, he could do nothing less but give her what was in
his heart.  Taking her hand between his, he grinned.  "I'll
hunt with you," he promised.  But, as a pleased smile stole
across her lips, he added, "Come the dawn."
     The words startled her and storm clouds arose in
the depths of her blue eyes.  Angrily, she pulled her hand
from his and stalked away, lifting her skirts as she walked.
"Don't mock me, Nicola.  I have no wish to burn in the
sunlight."
     "You won't," he promised, stealing behind her.  He
placed his arms around her waist and planted a kiss on her
cheek.  "Nor will I."
     She turned her head, no doubt surprised at the
certainty in his tone.  He nodded, saying, "That's what I've
been doing.  This Faust made a study of the skies and
immortal things.  He discovered there are times when the
sun can't harm us.  Janette, we <can> walk in the light, if
only for a day, every few centuries."
     Her hand trembled as it closed over the one he
held at her waist.  "No, that can't be.  I've seen the sun
disappear at midday, certainly . . . for a short time we're
safe, but only that short time.  It returns and burns again."
     "This is different," he promised, holding her close.
"I don't understand it myself--Faust claims it has
something to do with a balance of the elements--but from
dawn until dusk, we may walk in the light.  And this
dawn, this day, is the one."
     Janette pulled away from him--there was fear in
her eyes.  "You can't mean to try this?"
     "Why not?  His calculations appear correct," he
waved toward the documents on the table.  "The day
won't come again for centuries.  It's by accident that I
discovered it now and pure luck that I managed to
decipher the date in time."  Again, he walked toward her,
smiling.  "We can walk in the light."  Nicholas took his
hands in hers and raised them to his lips.  "Do you know,
I've never seen you in sunlight.  How beautiful you must
be."
     Her smile was weak, forced.  Again, she turned
away.  "You must not think of this.  You must not do this.
You will burn, Nicola.  And I would not have that
happen."
     "You can't stop me," he warned her.
     Janette turned toward him.  "LaCroix will, when I
tell him."
     "So--go tell him," he mocked, gesturing with his
hand toward the doorway.  "Run off and tell your master,
if you can find him."
     With an angry flourish, Janette gathered her skirts
in her hand and hurried toward the door.  "I <will> tell
him.  And he <will> stop you."
     It was only a matter of thought to be at the door
before her.  He leaned against the closed door, arms
crossed.  "I <will> walk in the light, tomorrow," he
promised.  "Not even LaCroix will stop me."
     Janette raised her chin defiantly.  "We shall see.
Now, let me pass."
     He stood his ground for a moment, but only for a
moment, then opened the door, laughing.  With an oath,
she scurried out of the room and into the darkness of the
rest of the house.  Still chuckling lightly, Nicholas closed
the door behind her and leaned against it--heavily for a
moment.
     He raised a hand to his forehead as the room spun
and the candle flame wavered--but not of its own accord--
then closed his eyes until the weakness passed.  Janette
was right in that he hadn't fed for several days.  The
hunger was starting to weaken him.  But . . . to walk in
the light, if only for a day, was worth any brief weakness.
     Opening his eyes, he caught sight of the papers on
the table and stumbled across the room.  They rustled
intriguingly beneath his hands, but he gathered them
together for later review.  Who knew what other secrets
Faust's studies contained--perhaps even a cure for the
dread fate with which he'd been afflicted?
     It would take time, he knew.  He'd have to accept
that.  But as he carefully slipped the papers back into the
hide pouch in which they'd arrived, he couldn't stop
himself from grinning.  It would begin with a walk in the
light.  And then . . . who knew where it could lead?
 
 
 
Chapter 2
 
 
     "Schanke!  Knight!"  The captain's unprecedented
speed in crossing the room and a frown more severe than
usual meant that something was up.
     Nick was on his feet and reaching for his jacket as
Stonetree explained, "Hostage situation in progress,
Adelaide West and Bay.  We've got one car on the scene,
four in transit.  One confirmed death."
     "How many hostages?" asked Schanke, shrugging
into his own jacket.
     "At least three.  Two suspects, but--"
     "Could be more," Nick finished, automatically.
"We're on it."
     "I want an on-scene report, pronto," called
Stonetree, following them to the doors of the station.
"No heroics--Downtown has a negotiator in transit.  Just
get the situation stable."
     "Will do, Captain."  Nick tossed the comment over
his shoulder, then hit the front door, Schanke behind him.
They ran for the Caddy.  Before the engine had started,
Schanke had already pulled the light from the glove
compartment and set it flashing.
     "Five minutes?" asked Nick, pulling the car out of
the lot and onto the street.
     "If we run the reds."  Schanke had the radio mike
in his hand.  "Eighty-one Kilo to dispatch, Eighty-one Kilo
to dispatch, in transit to Adelaide West and Bay.  What's
the situation update?  Copy?"
     Nick had half his attention on the radio, the other
half on the road, as he steered the Caddy through traffic.
     "Eighty-one Kilo, this is Fifty-two Charlie, on
scene.  Copy?"
     "Go ahead, Fifty-two," said Schanke.
     "Eighty-one, we've got four confirmed live
hostages, one dead.  Two confirmed suspects in a dry-
cleaners, handguns, no ID as yet.  Looks like an armed
robbery gone bad--"
     The sound of gunshots cut off the rest of the
officer's sentence.  Nick met Schanke's eyes, as Schanke
said, "Fifty-two?  We heard gunfire.  Copy?"
     They waited and Nick found himself holding his
breath, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel as
he swerved through on-coming traffic.  The seconds
seemed like minutes, but then the reply sputtered through
the radio.
     "Dispatch--this is Fifty-two Charlie.  Hostage
situation update--one suspect down, I repeat, down.  No
sign of other suspect.  Copy?"
     "Ten-Four, Fifty-two," answered the radio
dispatcher.  "You want a Code Four on that?"
     "Copy on the Code Four, Dispatch.  Cancel any
new calls, but we'll take anyone in transit.  Downgrade to
a Code One."
     With a sigh, Schanke reached over to the
dashboard and flicked off the light and siren according to
the downgrade order, then replaced it in the glove
compartment.  "Guess we missed all the fun."
     "If you can call it that."  Nick eased his foot from
the accelerator, slowing the car to a respectable speed as
the radio continued to blurt messages.  Ambulances were
called for.  A Crime Scene Unit was diverted in transit
from another location.
     When they arrived, traffic on Bay was down to
one lane.  The street immediately in front of the dry
cleaners was a frenzy of organized confusion.  There were
two ambulances on scene and, as Nick exited the Caddy
and crossed the street, he heard the siren of an
approaching third.  Distantly, he made note of at least one
car from the Coroner's Office, then spotted a second.
     Schanke walked beside him, his notebook already
in hand.  They paused as they reached a body on the
sidewalk.  Someone from CSU was drawing the chalk line
to mark the position of the corpse.  Nick squatted down
for a moment, noting the several bullet wounds, then rose
to his feet and took a few steps away.  He closed his eyes,
pushing back the blood hunger that ran through him--
despite the fact that he'd fed earlier, it never really went
away.
     "This our suspect?" Schanke asked one of the
uniformed officers.
     "Yes sir.  Don't know if he was high or what, but
he came charging out the front door and started firing."
     Nick opened his eyes and took a deep breath.  He
turned and gave the officer a grim smile, but didn't look
down at the corpse again.  "What about the second
suspect?"
     The Officer licked his lips.  "Must have gotten out
the back.  We missed him, completely.  Couldn't get too
close, with the hostages inside.  Not that it mattered."
     Schanke took a deep breath and met Nick's eyes.
"Dead?"
     "Three of 'em."  The man nodded toward a sheet
covered corpse being carried to an ambulance.  "Got one
female and one male still breathing."
     Schanke tapped his pen against his teeth and made
a notation in his notebook.  "See if you can get me ID's on
any of the hostages, okay--personal effects.  Any other
witnesses?"
     "Only the people inside.  No security cameras.
Nobody saw them go in and there's nothing but a blind
alley out back."
     Nick nodded toward the officer.  "Thanks."
     The officer moved away, toward the medical
personnel.  Schanke looked down at the body, then at the
crowd growing against the police barricade in the street.
"Even money says neither one of them's local."
     "How do you figure that?"
     "They were looking for quick cash.  Any local'd
know a place like this wouldn't have that kind of cash on a
Monday."  Schanke walked to the door of the dry cleaners
and held it open.  "Bank opened this morning--"
     "Which means the weekend receipts were already
gone."
     "And who the hell picks up dry-cleaning on a
Monday?"
     Nick gave him a light smile.  "I do."
     Schanke stopped just inside the door and stared at
him.  "Do not."
     "Pick it up whenever it's ready."
     "You're weird, you know that?"  Schanke walked
over to the counter.  "Myra uses our cleaner's like an extra
closet--just leaves it there till she needs something, then
has me pick it up.  I end up doing bulk runs after payday."
     Nick turned around, looking at the ceiling and the
walls.  "He's right--no cameras.  This one's gonna be a
tough one to find."
     "Maybe we'll luck out with an ID on the stiff out
front.  Known associates."
     "Maybe."  Nick walked past the counter into the
area behind the dry cleaning machines and front racks.  He
could hear the CSU at work in the rear of the place and
took care not to touch anything until he could get gloved.
"Hostages were back here?"
     "Looks right," said Schanke, following him.  He
wrinkled his nose.  "What the hell's that smell?"
     They made their way through the various suits,
jackets, drapes, and dresses hanging from the revolving
racks, the plastic rustling as they brushed against it.  One
of the CSU staff pushed past them, headed at a run for the
front of the store, but they continued on.
     There was a clear area at the back, with a few
sewing machines, desks, ironing board, and two doors--
one that looked like it led to a washroom and another
heavier door through which the night air entered.  A
uniformed officer stood just inside the outer door, which
Nick pointed out to Schanke.  "That's where he went."
     Schanke nodded, he was holding his nose closed
with two fingers.  "Maybe I'll just check that out," he said,
a decidedly green tint to his face.  "Think I need some
air."
     Nick fought back a grin as Schanke ran for the
door, but changed his mind as a fresh breeze lifted the
noxious scent again.  The CSU people seemed unaffected,
as they knelt beside the two bodies that had yet to be
removed, taking photographs and picking up stray bits of
evidence with tweezers or gloves and bagging it for later
identification.
     Just then, Natalie walked out of the rest room,
pulling protective gloves from her hands.  She said, "Hi,"
as she spotted him, then looked around.  "Where's
Schanke?"
     "Getting some air."
     "I don't blame him.  The smell of vomit can do that
to some people."  She took a breath and held it a second,
then said in a tight voice, "Can we talk outside?"
     Smiling, Nick placed his arm on her shoulder and
led her toward the door.  He wasn't about to tell her that
he'd smelled worse in his time--the stench of sun-baked,
rotting corpses from a battlefield coming immediately to
mind.  He had a feeling it wouldn't help.
     Natalie looked a little less green when she hit the
fresh air.
     "Better?" he asked, watching her carefully.
     She gave him a weak smile.  "Yeah.  I can usually
handle stuff like that, but between the vomit and the
ammonia--"
     "Ammonia?"
     She hesitated.  "You just got here?"
     "Just walked in.  We heard the shooting in transit."
     "Okay.  We happened to be in the neighborhood--
picking up a floater.  Dispatch diverted us here."  Natalie
gestured over her shoulder, toward the dry cleaners.
"Remind me to send them a thank you."
     "That bad?"
     "That bad.  Got a couple of sickos here, Nick.
From what I gather, they tried to rob the place, then
decided they didn't want any witnesses."
     He looked toward the open door.  "Employees?"
     "Three.  The other two were customers."  Her lips
were set in a grim line.  "But I guess they were afraid
somebody would hear the gunshots, because they decided
to try something quieter."  She looked down at the ground
and shook her head, as if not quite believing her own
words.  "They force fed them anything they could get their
hands on--dry cleaning fluid, drain opener, ammonia,
chlorine bleach--"
     Nick winced at the list.  "Yeah, I know enough
chemistry to figure that out."
     "There's a reason it says 'avoid contact with skin,'"
she said, the barest tremor to her voice.  "But you pour
that inside somebody . . . the only reason two of them
survived is they managed to vomit up most of the stuff in
time."
     He took a step or two away from her, then looked
down the mouth of the alley.  "What are their chances?"
     "Not good.  I saw them on the way out--I don't
think the woman'll make it through the night.  The man--"
When she hesitated, he looked back at her and she
shrugged, "Looks like he fought back.  From what I saw,
they poured the stuff in his eyes first to keep him busy."
     Schanke was coming back up the alley, the
uniformed officer from the front of the building with him.
     "Any luck?" called Nick.
     Schanke shook his head, gesturing toward the
solid brick walls around them.  "Nobody saw anything.
The guy's gone."
     "You've gotta get this one, Nick," Natalie said
softly, "and fast.  That wasn't just murder--it was torture."
     "It gets worse."  Schanke's voice mirrored his
expression--cold and angry.  He tapped his notebook
against his hand, then passed it to Nick.  "Officer Ross
here just gave me a list of the hostages.  Don't know
which ones are living or dead as of yet."
     He'd been with Schanke long enough to read the
man's scrawl.  The first three names meant nothing to him.
But the fourth-- "Shit."
     Natalie backed up a step at his exclamation.
"What?"
     "One of our own," explained Schanke.  "Might
have met him--Kevin Seeley?  One of the part-time sketch
artists we've been using, since they cut the budget.  Went
to school, I think.  Nice kid."
     She looked up at Nick, but he couldn't meet her
eyes.  Something inside him turned cold and hard as he
handed the notebook back to Schanke.  So much light . . .
.
     "Tall, black kid, right?' asked Natalie.
     For a moment, he had hope.  He took a breath and
nodded, eyeing her cautiously.  "Yeah."
     "He's alive."
     "Hallelujah," whispered Schanke, the barest of
smiles on his lips.  "Chalk one up for our side."
     Shaking his head, Nick closed his eyes for a
moment.  When he opened them, he headed through the
back door and into the store, not having the heart to
explain.  There was a darkness inside him, an old, cold
place.  Seeing Seeley's sketches, seeing the light in them,
had kept it at bay.  But now . . . .
     Behind him, he heard Schanke ask, "What?  What
did I say wrong?"
     "He was a sketch artist?" asked Natalie.
     "Yeah--a <real> artist.  You shoulda seen the
picture he gave Nick.  Half the stuff in the ROM couldn't
stand up to--"
     Nick hurried ahead, not wanting to hear the
words.  If he didn't hear the words, it wouldn't be true.
The light was still there.  It <had> to be.  To lose it just
when he'd found it again . . . .
     But even with the distance between them, the
plastic-covered clothing whispering as he made his way to
the front of the store, Natalie's voice reached his sensitive
hearing.
     "He probably won't make it through the night.
And even if he does--they blinded him."
     Closing his eyes again wouldn't work--all he could
see was the picture of the sailboat on the water, the light
glinting off the waves and the hull in brilliant streaks of
white and gold.  So much light . . . .
     Gone.  Forever.
 
 
 
Chapter 3
 
 
     The fury hadn't quite left him by the time he
returned to the loft.  Nick tore off his jacket and threw it
onto the couch, then headed for the refrigerator.  At first,
burrowing into the work at hand had helped.  There were
witnesses to be questioned, statements to be taken,
reports to fill out--very normal, ordinary things that
occurred when horrific events happened to other people.
     But this time it was someone he knew.  Or had
wanted to know.  To have accidentally discovered Kevin
Seeley's talent and then to have that presence and promise
wrenched away was almost a personal affront.  Nick knew
no matter how long he lived, he'd never produce work
near the caliber of which Kevin Seeley would be capable--
would have <been> capable--of producing.  It would have
been enough to have watched him for a time, help him if
he could.  To learn what was learnable by simple
observation.  And to bask in that wonderful light for as
long as it lasted . . . .
     It was gone too soon.  Once again, the light had
been taken from him.
     He pulled a bottle from the refrigerator, removed
the cork from the lip with his teeth, then spat the cork into
his hand and touched the bottle to his lips.  The blood was
cold and thick--there wasn't any light in it, either.  It was a
dark drink, but it suited his dark mood.
     Nick wandered back to his work area, kicking off
his shoes, not really caring where they landed.  The
district station had been in a state of controlled anguish by
the time they'd returned from the crime scene--he'd seen it
too often in the past few years.  When a fellow cop had
been injured or killed, the 'family'--as Stonetree referred to
the law enforcement community--grieved.  To a civilian
entering the station, everything would seem professional,
normal.  But anyone who worked with the force could feel
the underlying tension of not knowing, the frustration at
not being able to do anything.  All too often, the feelings
dissolved into grief, as one of their own was taken into the
darkness without warning.  For now, there was only the
waiting, as officers stayed past their shift to man phone
lines to the hospital, hoping for any word.
     The waiting was the worst.
     He found himself staring at the picture he'd
painted--had <tried> to paint--and winced.  Raising the
bottle of blood to his lips, Nick drank and turned away
from the picture.  Not even the blood would feed that
cold, hollow space inside.  The painting over which he'd
agonized, which he'd envisioned as filled with light, was
nothing but a void.  There was color and motion, but it
was cold and empty in a way that none of Kevin Seeley's
work had been or, he imagined, would ever be.
     Could ever have been.
     That thought brought him up short.  Setting the
bottle aside, he walked over to the painting and stared at
it.  There was a part of him that had rejoiced upon seeing
Kevin's work, had gloried in the light and life.  And, if
truth be told, there was also a part of him that had been
wounded by the light, by the presence of something better,
greater than the small talent he'd honed over the centuries.
When Kevin had asked to see his work he'd been flattered
. . . and afraid.
     Leaning forward, Nick ran his finger through the
paint spread across the canvas, gouging the layers of oil
he'd spread in fits and starts throughout the day.  What
would Kevin had thought of him, of his work?  Would
Kevin, who'd seen the light in everything, have managed
to see some shred of dormant light in this dark
monstrosity?  Or in any of the other pieces he'd painted?
     He turned, surveying his walls, studying the few of
his pieces that had met with his approval enough to be
placed on display.  They were his successes, because
they'd come closest to his ideal, to the light.  But now they
seemed dark, blacker than night, without soul and without
life.  What would Kevin have thought of them?  What
would Kevin had seen?
     Past tense.  So much of his life was in the past
tense.
     As was the light.  Not here.  Not going.  But
<gone>.
     Whatever energy was left to him seemed to
dissipate.  Wearily, Nick picked up the bottle and headed
toward the stairs to the upper floor, hoping to lose himself
in sleep.  He had enough presence of mind to pick up his
jacket from the couch, then paused as a rolled piece of
paper, fastened with a rubberband, fell out of his inside
pocket.  Leaning down to pick it up, he realized that it
was the picture Kevin had given him, the watercolor of
the boats on the water.
     With something akin to reverence, Nick reached
down and rescued the picture from the floor.  He slid the
rubberband from it carefully as he walked back to the
living room.  Once he reached the table, he unrolled it
carefully, setting a small figure on either end to help
flatten it again.  It wouldn't take much to fix it, he'd been
careful in carrying it home.  How had he forgotten that
he'd had it with him?
     But then the crest of the keel coming out of the
water caught his eyes.  The light blazed within the picture
and he stared at it, enraptured again.  How easy it was to
become lost in darkness, to forget the light . . . .
     When he turned and headed upstairs, he left the
bottle of blood behind.  And he hoped that for this night at
least his dreams might be filled with the gleam of light
from glossed wood and unfurled sails, instead of the cold
emptiness that he'd come to expect and accept after so
many centuries in darkness.
 
 
     He knew the dawn was fast approaching just as
he'd always known . . . or so it seemed.  As Nicholas
trimmed his beard, found himself a freshly laundered tunic,
and fastened what seemed to be an unending series of ties
and laces on his breeches, then his coat, there was a slight
tremor within him, a warning.  It grew as did the nearness
of the dawn, of the light--grew in strength and urgency
until it should have been all he could think about.  His
eyes kept glancing back toward the windows, which were
shuttered as a matter of course against the cold of the
winter night and kept prying mortal eyes away.
     He knew the room would be dark enough in which
to spend the daylight hours, protected from the burning
rays of the sun.  He'd spent much of the last three weeks
here, lost in study, barely aware of the passing of darkness
into light as he shuffled through the parchments and
papers of Georg Faust.  Only that inner sense reminded
him of the danger of approaching brightness, or promised
the sweet safety of the impending twilight.  And he'd
ignored even that, as he'd pondered his translations,
studied the charts and sigils and aspects, refigured the
calculations.  While in this safe place, the transience of day
and night hadn't mattered.  Until he'd found the answer
he'd sought.
     Leaving the last lace of his slashed coat undone--
for he was no slave to fashion as was Janette--he walked
back to the table.  Nicholas picked up the pouch that
contained Faust's papers and measured the weight of it in
his hands.  If Faust were correct, the coming dawn would
hold no threat for him, or his kind.  He would walk in the
light, if only for this day.
     And then, there were other secrets that might be
learned from Faust's studies.  If he should survive this
dawn, not burn in the light . . . ?
     A door banged shut not too far away.  Nicholas
looked up, letting the pouch fall to the table.  The sound
was unmistakable, as was the tread of feet on the wooden
floor of the house, the hushed voices that he could
recognize but were too distant in which to find meaning.
     LaCroix had returned.  Janette had found him and
brought him here.
     For an instant, there was a part of him that felt fear
and his hands fell back to the tied pouch that rested on the
table.  LaCroix would try to stop him, he was certain of it.
But LaCroix was reasonable, rational, in a way which
Janette was not.  Her fear of the light wouldn't be swayed
by calculations or predictions.  But LaCroix was another
matter.  He would hear, he would understand.
     Nicholas had almost convinced himself that he'd
have the right of it, that he could adequately explain his
studies to LaCroix, that there'd be nothing to keep him
from this adventure.  But when the door opened inward
and LaCroix stalked into the low beamed room, ducking
his head as he entered, the small bit of fear blossomed
again, near his heart.
     The sleeves on LaCroix's coat were flounced,
Nicholas could see the tips of leather gloves peeking out
from the pockets sewn on the side.  Those same gloves
fell out of their resting places as LaCroix began to unlace
his coat, glancing up at Nicholas with a look of . . .
surprise?
     "I'd have thought you'd be at rest by now,"
LaCroix said lightly.  He tugged on the lacings
methodically and, as in all things that LaCroix wished,
they slid loose easily, without knotting.  He tossed his
coat over a high-backed chair and stretched.  "I thought
they'd keep me there all morning through--I don't trust
this Augsburg, Nicholas.  You should come with me
tomorrow night.  I'd like your opinion on him.  And his
intentions."
     The words were meant to flatter him--LaCroix
seldom asked his opinion in matters of politics, for which
he had neither aptitude or interest, save for judging the
readiness and capabilities of armies and their generals.
Nicholas was about to say as much, but he caught a
glimpse of movement at the door; Janette was hovering in
the hallway outside, watching and listening.  He could
hear the nervous pace of her footsteps.
     "Well?" asked LaCroix.
     He fixed his eyes on the doorway.  "She brought
you back here."
     "Hmn?  Janette?"  LaCroix glanced over his
shoulder, toward the door, still maintaining that facade of
disinterest.  "Why, yes."  He settled in the chair over
which he'd thrown his coat and steepled his fingers.
"She's concerned about you, says you haven't fed for
days."
     "And you said?"  Finally, he looked at LaCroix,
met his gaze.
     But LaCroix's expression was still even,
unconcerned.  "Only that it was late and time we returned
here.  Have you, by the way?  Fed?"  He looked down at
his fingernails.  "Of course, it's none of my concern if you
should decide to fast for a time.  But it <will> be
temporary, Nicholas.  I shouldn't like to see you starve.  I
have my reputation to protect."
     This time, those cold eyes fixed on him,
challenging him to answer sharply, or smartly, or nastily.
And Nicholas looked away, to the stub of the candle
which was afloat in the small bowl of melted wax.  "I've
been busy."
     "So Janette said.  Some nonsense about walking in
the light."
     "It's true," muttered Nicholas, still staring at the
candle, memorizing the way the light flickered and
danced.
     LaCroix leaned forward.  "I beg your pardon--
what was that?"
     "You heard well enough."  Watching the light,
seeing it, gave him some courage.  He met LaCroix's gaze.
"It's true.  When the sun rises, we can walk in the light."
     Lips tightening into a thin smile, LaCroix settled
back in the chair again and shook his head.  "And how is
this miracle supposed to be accomplished?"
     He picked up the parcel that contained Faust's
papers--but stopped himself, as he stared into LaCroix's
eyes.  His first reaction was to explain, to share this
mystery he'd uncovered.  LaCroix <would> understand, as
he had understood.
     But Nicholas froze when he saw that steel in
LaCroix's eyes.  Before having been heard, his argument
had been judged faulty and dismissed.  Not matter what he
said or how he said it, if he should be as eloquent as
Cicero--whom LaCroix loved to quote--he'd have no
hearing in this court.  The matter had been decided.  The
case had been closed.  There was only the sentence to be
handed down.
     He wasn't about to spend the rest of his precious
daylight entertaining LaCroix.  "You'll see," he answered,
starting toward the door.
     But LaCroix moved from the chair almost too
quickly for his eye to see.  He stood between Nicholas and
the doorway; his stance, even his smile, were easy, non-
threatening.  "I think not."
     "You won't stop me."
     He moved to brush his way past LaCroix, but his
arm was caught, held, at the elbow.  Their eyes met,
inches apart.  "You think not?"  Then LaCroix released
him, lightly lifting fingers from the folds of the coat, and
turned his back.  "I'm supposed to allow you walk into the
sunlight, on a whim?  You'd prefer that I let you commit
suicide?"  When he turned back, there was a mock frown
on his face.  "For shame, Nicholas.  I believe that's
referred to as a 'mortal' sin?  But then . . . you're no longer
mortal."
     Nicholas looked to the closed shutters, feeling the
coming of the light, the dawning of the sun.  "Later," he
muttered, refusing to be drawn into the argument.
     "But there won't <be> a later . . . not if you have
your way."  Sighing, LaCroix shook his head, as if
disappointed.  "Give up this foolishness and take your
rest.  I've spent the night arguing with mortal fools, I don't
intend to waste the day in the same manner."
     "Then don't."  He took another step toward the
door, but paused when he heard the rustle of Janette's
skirts just beyond.  "I <will> walk in the light."
     "And if I forbid it?"
     Nicholas met those steel eyes without flinching.
"I'm going."
     "As I thought."  Again, LaCroix moved quickly,
but this time he stood behind Nicholas, one arm sliding
around his neck in a choke hold, the other pinning his
right hand behind his back.  "Remember, you haven't fed,"
he whispered, in Nicholas' ear.  "You're weak.  Far too
weak to even stand the first rays of the dawn.  If you're to
burn, it will be when I say, <not> before.  And, for some
reason . . . I don't think I want you to burn.  Today."
     Nicholas struggled for a moment, then let his
weight fall back.  The sudden lack of resistance surprised
LaCroix, as did the blow to his face, by Nicholas' free
hand.  He darted forward, leaving LaCroix behind--
     But Janette stood in the doorway, her hands
stretched to fill the space.  "Nicola, you <mustn't>," she
pleaded.
     She couldn't stop him.
     She wasn't meant to.  He was struck on the back
of the neck by LaCroix, his hands clasped together and
moving so swiftly downward that Nicholas fell to his
knees.  Before he could recover from the sudden jolt,
LaCroix put a foot against his chest and kicked him
backwards, so that he sprawled upon the floor.
     He heard the snap of a rib, but that sudden pain
meant less to him than the spinning of the room.  For an
instant, Nicholas closed his eyes and remained on the
floor, his strength having been drained by the fight.  He
was too hungry and weak to continue.
     But if he gave up now, gave in to the weakness of
his flesh and hunger, he would lose the light.
     As if from a distance, he heard Janette say softly,
"Don't hurt him."
     LaCroix's answering laughter made him flinch--
"He'll find less harm from me than the sun."  He felt
himself lifted, as LaCroix slung him over his shoulder.
"He wants to see the light.  Very well, Nicholas, you shall.
You can watch the light as long as you wish, for all I
care."
     "No!" he cried, summoning up enough will to
strike LaCroix in the small of the back, as hard as he
could.  He wouldn't lose the light.  Not now, not when he
was so close!
     Almost instantly, LaCroix dropped him.  Nicholas
tumbled away, striking one of the legs of the heavy
wooden table, the force of his fall tipping it. The pouch
and the candle fell to the wooden floor.  He saw Janette
pick up the pouch and raise it, as if to snuff out the flame
of the fallen candle.
     Nicholas scrambled to his feet and wrenched the
pouch from her hands in near panic.  Janette backed away
with a shriek, as if she thought he might strike her.  There
was fear in her eyes--he raised his hands, words on his
lips, a promise that he didn't mean to hurt or frighten her--
     Too late he realized that it wasn't him that she
feared, but LaCroix behind him.  He turned his head and
only barely recognized the shape of the chair with which
LaCroix hit him.  The wood shattered and scattered,
raining down around him, the blow sending him to his
knees, then face down to the floor.
     And this time he couldn't move.  He was not
unaware of Janette kneeling beside him, touching his
forehead and his hands, kissing his cheek--he simply
couldn't bring himself to awaken enough to respond.  The
hunger burned so strong and deep within him, the many
hours of lost slumber weighed upon his flesh so heavily,
that he couldn't bring himself out of the twilight state into
which the blow had placed him, however hard he fought.
 
     The floor slid beneath his hands as he was dragged
across the room, but he couldn't seem to command them
to find purchase, to hang onto anything.  He could smell
Janette's perfume, heard the light steps of her heel-less
shoes, as she danced back and forth, around and beside
him.
     "LaCroix, let him rest," she begged.  "Please?"
     "No, I'll give him what he wants," said LaCroix's
voice, in a warning tone.  "I'll let him see the light, for all
the good it will do him.  And then maybe he'll learn to--"
     But the words faded away as they reached the
hard wooden steps down to the cellar.  Nicholas was able
to muster enough presence of mind to wrap his arms
around his face and head to protect himself, as LaCroix
dragged him down the steps by his feet like a small child
might drag a stuffed toy.
 
 
     Nick awoke in his bed, his arms raised to ward off the
wooden steps.  Then he took a deep breath and fell backward
against the pillows, exhausted.
     It was late afternoon, if that.  His body ached, telling him
that he should sleep.  His eyelids felt weighted.  It should have
been easy to simply close his eyes and fall again into the dark
oblivion of slumber.
     But the light was calling.  Nick could feel the weight and
warmth of it in his chest--as well as hear the alarms that rang
in his inner ears warning him that the world wasn't yet safe
enough to walk.  Trying to shrug off the feeling and knowing
that further sleep would be impossible, he slipped out of bed
and headed downstairs.
     The room was shadowed with blacks and browns, but he
could see well enough--better than most mortals could in
daylight.  One of their 'gifts,' one of the compensations for losing
the light.  Walking down the stairs, his lips twisted in a wry
smile as he considered just what he'd been given in exchange
for the loss of the daylight.  Immortality, eternal youth,
extraordinary senses, phenomenal strength . . . each was a gift
in and of itself, but meant for some greater purpose, meant to
preserve their existence, to make them better hunters that they
might venture out, night after night, into eternity.
     He walked to the refrigerator and opened the door, his
fingers wrapping around a bottle of cow's blood.  Eyeing it with
distaste, Nick pried out the cork with his fingernailsand tossed
it into the sink as he passed.  There were fewer and fewer
opportunities to hunt.  As Janette reminded him time and again,
even the young ones weren't foolish enough to expose their
existence to the modern world of scientific inquiry by leaving
too many bloodless corpses scattered in their wake.  How soon
before they no longer needed to be hunters?  How long before
the very things that made them what they were--freaks and
curiosities, a danger to the mortal world--were bred out of their
kind?
     He sat down on the couch and tilted back the bottle,
swallowing one mouthful of blood, then two.  Gazing up at the
shutters, he remembered the first time he'd read Darwin's
essays on natural selection.  What would Darwin have thought
of vampires?  When the blood was as easy to find and purchase
as a six-pack at a neighborhood convenience store, was it
possible that vampires would have evolved--or devolved--into
nothing more than mortals who couldn't tolerate sunlight?
Would the nature of the beast, the fangs and golden/green eyes,
fall by the road of evolutionary process?
     It was a question he would have discussed with LaCroix at
great length, in years past.  For all of their difficulties, he'd
found their discussions interesting, fascinating . . . and
maddening.  LaCroix's point could seldom be swayed, error was
not something he liked to admit, but he could talk circles
through an argument until, at the end, you found he held the
position to which you'd first subscribed and that you held the
opposing thought to be true.
     He took another drink from the bottle and set it down on
the coffee table, careless of the stains the cold glass would leave
on the wood, his dream fresh in his mind and clouding his
better judgment of common things.  If only LaCroix had been of
a mind to listen that dawn!  If only he'd tossed aside his solidly
held beliefs and--if it be told--fear of the burning rays of dawn
for only an instant.  They might <all> have walked in the light
again, at least that once . . . .
     The painting Kevin had given to him was lying on the
coffee table where he'd left it.  Nick picked it up and leaned
forward.  The colors were muted in the darkness, but the light
in it was still as strong and clear as it had seemed beneath the
fluorescent bulbs in the squad room.  He wondered for a
moment what it might look like in sunlight--not direct, of
course, because that would be the ruin of a watercolor over
time.  But once it was framed he might hang it in a place where
the light from the window could shine on it.  And if he stood in
a darkened area of the loft, with the rest of the shutters closed
tightly, he could look at it in safety.
     But not touch it.  Or get too close to the light that would
shine on or around it.
     Yes, he had a painting.  An original.  And it was highly
improbable that Kevin Seeley would ever do another like it.
     If he was even alive . . . .
     Placing the painting on the coffee table, Nick half rose from
the couch and picked up the phone.  The number for Mercy
Faith Hospital wasn't on his autodial, but--his lips quirked into a
smile--there were occasionally times when the formidable
memory of vampires came in handy.  He punched in the
number then slumped back onto the couch, idly reaching for the
bottle of blood he'd left on the coffee table.
     "Mercy Faith Hospital," said a voice.
     "Third floor nurse's station, please."
     "One moment, please."
     Nick cradled the phone between his ear and his shoulder
and leaned back against the arm of the couch.  He sipped blood
from the lip of the bottle, while the muzac version of a dated
pop hit droned in the background.  The call transfer took less
time than he expected, he was caught with a mouthful of blood,
swallowed quickly and sputtered as a woman's voice identified
herself as the head nurse of the floor.
     After a moment's pause and spraying the front of his
pajamas with a mist of blood and spit, he frowned, then said,
"This is Detective Nick Knight, twenty-seventh Metro Division.
I'd like some information about the condition of the two
poisoning victims brought in last night, about eleven?  A man
and a woman--Edith Crewe and Kevin Seeley."
     "Yes, detective.  One moment, please."
     Nick fruitlessly wiped at the wet spots on the pajamas and
thanked fate for small favors--he recognized her voice from the
last time he'd dealt with the hospital on a case.  This would
make things easier, at least.  Hospital bureaucracy was almost
as bad, if not worse, than some of the nonsensical
administrative hoops he was forced to jump through due to
police regulations.  Civilization wouldn't end with fire or ice, but
buried under an avalanche of forms, attachments, requisitions,
and memos.
     The phone was lifted again, stopping that hideous muzac.
The nurse cleared her throat.  "I'm sorry, detective, but Mrs.
Crewe passed away just after noon--her body's been forwarded
to the coroner's office for autopsy."
     He swallowed--so much for one witness.  But for the
witness that was more than a witness--"And Kevin Seeley?"
     Papers rustled in the background.  "Mr. Seeley's condition
has improved somewhat.  Dr. Merrick will be returning for his
rounds at five, if you'd like to call him for more information.  I
<can> transfer you to administration, if you like?"
     Kevin was still alive.  "Can you give me any more on his
condition?  I know they tried to blind him--"
     "I'm sorry, detective, but you'll have to speak with the
doc--"
     "All right."  Nick took a breath, forced himself to be
courteous--if he got on the wrong side of the hospital staff, he'd
never get any information.  Ever again.  "I'm sorry.  Please, can
you leave a message for Dr. Merrick?  I'll be stopping by the
hospital, I'd like his permission to question Kevin Seeley."
     "Certainly, detective.  I'll make certain he gets the
message."
     "Thanks."  Sighing, Nick wiped his lips with the sleeve of
his pajamas and took another swallow from the bottle.  He
raised himself from the couch enough to hit the autodial for the
station.
     "Detective Schanke," he asked, when the operator came on
the line.  The call was patched through with--thankfully--no
muzac to annoy him while he waited.
     "Detective Schanke--"
     "Schank--it's Nick.  I just spoke with the hospital about our
victims from the dry cleaner's last night."
     "The Crewe woman croaked.  We got a call from the
coroner's office that she's on the list for this evening.  Which
means we're down to one witness--if they take Seeley off the
critical list."
      Nick smiled as he held up the green glass bottle and shook
the blood remaining within it.  "His condition's been upgraded."
     "Great!  That's . . .that <is> good, isn't it?  I mean, can he see
anything or what?"
     He tightened his grip on the bottle and held it to his chest.
"I don't know.  I've made an appointment with his doctor--
thought I'd drop by Mercy Faith first and see if I can get
permission to question him."
     "Yeah--if you can get in the front door."
     Nick sat up and placed the bottle back on the coffee table.
"What?"
     "Obviously, you haven't been watching the evening news.
Somehow, word got out--specific word.  The media's got Seeley's
name <and> that he's our only living witness."
     Nick closed his eyes and sunk back against the soft leather
of the couch.  "Does Stonetree know?"
     "I think the reporters at the front desk gave him a clue."
Schanke's voice lowered.  "If I were you, I'd hide out at the
hospital for a while.  Our captain is <not> a happy man.  Even
made me change my tie--said it was an affront to the service."
     "The green one with the beige stripes?" asked Nick, eyes
open.
     "Yeah.  How did you--?"
     "He's right."  Wearily, he rose from the couch and picked
up the remote.  "Schank--if it's all over the news that Kevin's
the only witness--"
     "Got it covered.  We've got a guard posted at his door, extra
security around the hospital.  Nobody can get to him."
     "Well, let's hope <I> can."
     "Boy, this case has gone from bad to worse," moaned
Schanke.  "Our perp stiff is an out-of-towner, we're waiting for
prints from NYC, although Chicago's my guess.  Until we get an
ID on him, we've got nothing on his buddy, not even a
description."
     Nick held his breath for a moment, toying with the buttons
on the remote.  "The media coverage--do they know he's been
blinded?"
     Again, Schanke paused, Nick could almost hear the wheels
turning in his brain.  "No.  Not that I remember seeing or
hearing."
     "Good.  That'll work for us."
     "Well, <something> should.  The pressure's on this time,
partner--stuff like this just doesn't happen here . . . thank God.
The mayor's even giving a press conference--wants Stonetree
there as backup.  Hey, you think he'd want to borrow the tie?
Probably look great on camera."
     Nick smiled at the thought.  "I wouldn't ask."
     "Yeah.  Well, I see double shifts on the horizon.  You wanna
call Myra and explain it for me?"
     "Offering Stonetree the tie would be quicker," decided Nick.
He touched a button on the remote and watched the shutter
open, slightly.  "Let's hope we get a break, huh?"
     "Seeley's alive.  That's <something>."
     It was still too light outside, another half hour at least.
"Yeah.  That's something."  He took a step back as the light
seemed alive, moving toward him across the floor.  "You get
anything on that suspect, you can reach me here or at the
hospital."
     "You got it.  Gotta go, Stonetree's glaring."
     "Don't ask him about the--"  The phone disconnected.
"Tie."
     He placed the receiver in the cradle absently, then picked
up the bottle of blood and settled on the couch, content for the
moment to drink and see the light shrink back to the
windowsill, swallowed by the darkness.  That small comfort
hadn't been denied him.  At least he could watch the light.
     Unlike Kevin . . . .
 
 
 
Chapter 4
 
 
     Schanke had been right, the hospital parking lot
was dotted with television news crews and their vans,
print reporters, and cameramen.  It was a media circus in
full swing and they looked to be stopping just about
anyone coming into or out of the hospital main reception
lobby.  On a hunch, Nick drove around to the side
emergency entrance.
     Hospital security staff were posted there, as well
as at the front of the building, but there were no reporters
to be seen.  Nick parked the Caddy in the rear lot, then
made the way through emergency by presenting his badge
to anyone in a uniform.  Eventually, he found himself in an
elevator on the way to the third floor.  A glance at the
wall clock opposite the third floor nurse's station
confirmed his fear-- the security delay had made him late.
It was ten minutes after five and Dr. Merrick had probably
already begun his rounds.
     Still hoping, he walked up to the nurse's station,
badge in hand.  His concern turned to relief when he
recognized the young nurse on duty--he'd met her when
investigating Marilyn Siegal's suicide . . . which he'd
proven to be murder.  He wasn't certain that she'd
recognize him, at first.
     When she looked up, her face held that careful,
'May I help you,' expression required of even the weariest
of hospital staff forced to deal with the often annoyed,
frightened, or ill general public.  But her smile became
genuine when she said, "Detective Knight--we haven't
seen you around here for a while."
     "That's usually a good thing," Nick said lightly,
pocketing his badge.  "Part of the job."
     "I suppose."  She glanced down at the desk.  "We
never really got to thank you for . . . what you did for
Marilyn.  We never would have known."  Picking up a
pen, she tapped it against the open notebook and looked
up at him thoughtfully.  "Guess you don't hear that too
often, huh?  Kind of like the way it works here.  People
come in when they're sick.  If we make them well, we
never see them again."  Her smile broadened.  "It's not
fair."
     "Very few things are."  He leaned on the desk.
"I'm looking for Dr. Merrick.  I was told Kevin Seeley's
his patient."
     She hesitated.  "Dr. Merrick's late getting out for
rounds, but he might be waiting for you.  I can have him
paged--?"
     "If you would."
     His earlier dedication to the Siegal case was
paying off.  The nurse smiled and moved to the intercom.
Nick took a step or two away from the desk and leaned
against the hospital wall.  There were whispers, voices,
groans and moans and sighs on the periphery of his
hearing, from every room on the floor.  He couldn't begin
to guess where Kevin Seeley might be, unless he strolled
the hospital corridor in search of the one door guarded by
a uniformed police officer.  <That> would be a dead
giveaway.
     Hearing the page for Dr. Merrick over the hospital
intercom, he turned and smiled at the nurse.  She matched
his smile, then picked up the phone at the desk when it
buzzed.  Covering the receiver with her hand, she said,
"He'll be here in a minute."
     "Thanks."  Nick glanced back over at the nurse's
station, his eyes falling on photographs tacked up on the
bulletin board behind the desk--they'd been taken by
Marilyn Siegal.  He found himself staring at them across
the distance.  How much these people must have thought
of her, if her pictures were still here, still meant
something.  It was almost a shrine to her memory, to the
joy and life that shone from her smile, her posture.
     In a way, she'd helped him through a bad patch,
too.  His luck had been down, he hadn't been able to solve
a case for weeks and he'd begun to question whether he
was making a difference.  Erica's suicide had almost been
the last straw.  But in solving Dr. Siegal's murder, in
proving that a woman so in love with life couldn't have
committed suicide, he'd proven that he could do the job,
see the truth through all the lies and weariness that
sometimes made the world such a difficult place to
endure.  It wasn't fair, that she'd been taken from the
world.  But he'd done right by her.  The nurse was correct
in that justice had prevailed.
     But he couldn't bring her back.  He couldn't return
that one bright, light spirit to the world.  Just as he
couldn't stop what had happened to Kevin Seeley.  Some
things were beyond him, no matter how much he wished
to the contrary.  But he still had a feeling that there was
something he could do, <should> do, for Kevin.
     A doctor approached the desk.  Nick straightened,
but the doctor moved directly to the nurse.  "What else
could go wrong tonight?" he asked glumly.  "I'm late for
rounds as it is."
     The nurse gestured toward Nick, who took a step
toward them.  "This is Detective Knight," she explained.
"Detective, this is Dr. Merrick."
     "Thank you," Dr. Merrick said wearily, before
turning his attention to Nick.  "Detective Knight?" he
asked, peering over his brown horn-rimmed eyeglasses,
lips taut in a frown.  "With the police?  Are you
responsible for those people downstairs?  I can't even get
a cup of coffee without running a gauntlet of twenty
people wanting to see my I.D. badge."
     "No, I'm not--I'm with Homicide.  I'm sorry for the
inconvenience, I was stopped by security myself."  He
withdrew his badge from his pocket.  "I wanted to speak
with you about Kevin Seeley's condition.  And . . . I'd like
to question him."
     "I can give you a run down, but there's no way in
hell you can interrogate him," said Dr. Merrick, his frown
still in place as he watched Nick put his badge away.
"He's in fair condition.  If he hadn't managed to vomit
those toxins, he'd be dead now.  As it was, it scarred the
hell out of his esophagus."  He paused and lifted his
eyeglasses from his face, rubbing his hand across his
closed eyelids.  "He won't need surgery, thank God.  But
he needs rest."
     "We need a description of the suspect," explained
Nick.
     "So I heard, on every television and radio station
I've tuned in since this morning."  Merrick glanced away.
"I'd say someone dropped the ball on your end of things.
And I'm not about to endanger the welfare of my patient
because someone's putting heat on you from downtown,
or wherever the hell it is the ax falls from onto you
people."
     Dr. Merrick started to walk away, but Nick kept
pace with him.  "Believe me, I could care less who's
putting pressure on whom.  I want the man who did this
off the streets, before he thinks about trying it with
someone else."  His words slowed Merrick and, as the
doctor turned toward him, Nick added, "You've said
yourself that he's gotten a lot of media coverage.  What
happens if he likes it?  What happens if he tries to do it
again?"
     The doctor met his eyes, as if measuring the truth
of his words.  "You've got no other leads?"
     "None at the moment.  We may have a better idea
in a few hours--"
     "But you can't take the chance."  Merrick nodded.
Glancing at the nurse's station, he drew Nick to one side,
his voice low.  "Detective, I understand your situation.
And I sympathize.  But I don't believe you'll get much out
of Mr. Seeley at the moment.  He can't talk.  He was lucky
enough not to breathe that crap into his lungs, but, as I
said, there's damage to the pharynx and soft palate."
     Nick took a quick breath.  "What about his
vision?"
     Dr. Merrick looked away.  "I'm not an
opthamologist, but . . . I wouldn't say there's any hope.
His corneas are gone, the irises are burned beyond any
hope of recovery and the lenses are scarred.  I've no idea
how much internal damage was done to his eyes by the
corrosive--I'd say the optic nerves are probably gone as
well.  The EMT's were good--they brought us samples
from the scene so at least we knew what we were dealing
with.  But," his eyes met Nick's, "I'm afraid there isn't
anything available to deal with that sort of damage. With
the advances being made in corrective eye surgery, even
transplantation, perhaps in fifteen years or even ten, there
might be something out there to help him regain a small
portion of what he's lost."
     "A small portion.  Perhaps.  Maybe."  Nick
repeated the words softly, then looked down at the floor.
     "I know," said Merrick sympathetically, "he won't
be much of an eyewitness.  But if you can catch this man,
it's still possible that Mr. Seeley will be able to identify his
voice."
     He licked his lips and gave the doctor a reassuring
smile.  Obviously, he hadn't been told that Kevin was an
artist.  And there was no way he could know that Nick
was more concerned for the young man's future than the
victim being able to identify his attacker in a police line-up
or court setting.  "We'll find something," he promised.
     But there <were> police matters to be dealt with.
Nick took another breath.  "Is he conscious?"
     Merrick nodded slightly.  "We've given him
medication for the pain.  He's . . . fairly lucid.  There hasn't
been any real need for sedation.  His fiancee was in to see
him earlier.  But, as I said, he can't talk.  And I'd rather
not risk further damage by having him attempt to--"
     "I read lips," Nick explained quickly.  "And--I'd
like to see him.  He works part time for us.  I want to let
him know that we haven't forgotten about him."
     If he had to, he could hypnotize the doctor, gain
the permission for an interview through force of will--but
he didn't know enough about Kevin's medical condition to
second-guess a professional, no matter how desperate
their need of an eyewitness description of the suspect.  If
his efforts cost Kevin his voice, in addition to the loss of
his sight--
     Dr. Merrick smiled grimly after a moment's
consideration.  "All right, Detective . . . you've convinced
me.  Human contact is as essential to a patient's recovery
as surgery or medication.  Yes, he's been quiet.  Too
quiet.  And that concerns me.  Your visit might just help.
But--" the doctor cautioned, raising a hand in warning, "I
want to be present.  And you leave when I say, okay?"
     "Thank you," answered Nick.
     Dr. Merrick called to the nurse stationed at the
desk, "I'm already late for rounds--have Dr. Thomas start
without me.  I'll catch him up when I've finished."
     "Yes, doctor," answered the nurse.  She gave Nick
a wink when the doctor moved away, her hand already
reaching for the phone.
      Nick matched his pace with that of the doctor,
following the man down the main corridor, taking the first
right and next left.  Hospital corridors had a tendency to
look the same.  He needed to know this place well.  His
memory would hold all the details until the building itself
had crumbled and crashed in upon itself centuries from
now . . . if he should survive that long.  But for now he
needed to assure himself, and the captain, that everything
was being done to protect Kevin from a suspect who'd
already proven to be callous about the taking of human
life.
     There <was> a uniformed officer seated in front of
Kevin's room.  He looked up as they approached and rose
from his chair.  Nick gave him a nod and a smile--they
recognized one another.  "Anything?" asked Nick.
     "Not a sign of him."  The officer gestured toward
the door with his thumb and met the doctor's eyes.  "A
couple of the guys were asking if the kid's gonna make it."
     "I think so," said the doctor, glancing over at
Nick.
     "Good."  Then the officer cleared his throat.  "I
heard they passed the hat at the station, while I was on
duty here."  He reached into his back pocket and
withdrew his wallet, flipping it open and withdrawing a
few bills.  "If you'd make sure they get that.  I know it's
not much . . . ."
     Nick hesitated before taking the money.  Then he
wrapped his fingers around the cash, making a mental
note to open his own wallet when he hit the station.  And
it occurred to him that an additional anonymous
contribution from a 'concerned citizen' wouldn't be out of
place, with all of the publicity that Kevin's case had
received.  "It's more than enough," he said, touching the
officer's shoulder lightly in passing.  "I'll make certain they
get it . . . and know where it came from."
     "Thanks."
     "Eyes sharp," noted Nick, gesturing toward the
corridor, and the officer nodded, a stern expression on his
face as he sat down on the chair.  It never failed to amaze
him how much a part of this 'family' he'd become, how
accepted he was by everyone from the civilian
administration, to the cops on the beat, to the brass.  It
touched a part of him that he'd thought long dead.  And
the responsibility of it frightened him just a little from time
to time.
     His own smile faded as he hesitated in the
doorway, following the doctor into the room.  For this
was one of the times when the burden of service had to be
shouldered and the weight wasn't lessened by the number
who shared in it.
 
     The blinds at the windows had been drawn against
the night.  The overhead fluorescent lights shone brightly.
But neither mattered to Kevin.  The upper portion of the
bed had been raised slightly, so that he wasn't lying down,
but neither was he sitting up.  His eyes were bandaged,
the gauze wrapped around his head, bright against his
dark skin and hair.  His mouth and nose were free--they
hadn't hooked him up to any oxygen or breathing
apparatus, although Nick's keen vision could still see the
marks from an earlier presence.  An IV drip hung
suspended from a bar at the head of the bed, connected to
Kevin's left arm.
     Nick was thankful to note that Kevin wasn't being
given blood.  He swallowed, knowing that it would
always be a distraction to him, no matter how well he'd
fed.  He waited at the door, suddenly uncertain of what to
do or say.  Was Kevin even awake?  His hands were
clutching the light sheet and blanket that covered him, but
he'd made no sign that he knew they were there.  If he was
awake, surely he would have heard the door open?
     Dr. Merrick cleared his throat loudly and walked
toward the bed.  He touched Kevin's hand.  "Kevin, there's
someone here to see you.  A Detective Knight, from the
police?"
     Nick saw Kevin's body stiffen and heard the barest
croaking sound, but Merrick tightened his grip on Kevin's
right hand.  "No--none of that.  We talked about that
earlier.  You wore yourself out with your fiancee.  No
talking.  But the detective wanted to pass along some
messages from your friends on the force.  And he wanted
to ask you some questions.  You won't have to answer
aloud--he reads lips.  So just form your words.  And if
you feel at all tired, you just squeeze my hand twice, all
right?"
     Nick took a step toward the bed and saw Kevin
nod slightly, his fingers closing around Merrick's once.
Merrick looked back at Nick and nodded.  "All right,
detective.  I think we can spare five minutes."
     Again, he found himself at a loss for words.  What
could he say?
     "Hi, Kevin.  I heard--I heard your fiancee was by.
I'm sorry I missed her."
     Kevin smiled, then his lips formed the words, "Hi,
Nick.  Didn't know you'd be by . . . ."
     "Stopped on my way in, thought I'd check how
you were doing," explained Nick.  "I was--Schanke and I
are the primaries on your--on the case," he corrected
quickly.
     "I'm the . . . only witness."
     Nick read the message, then glanced back over his
shoulder, at the television sitting across from the bed.  The
remote was resting beside Kevin's hand.  "We've got a
man out front and we've doubled hospital security," he
explained.  "We won't let anyone get to you."
     "But you don't know what he looks like?"
     Nick glanced at the doctor, pretty certain that
Merrick was only understanding the spoken portion of the
conversation.  "Not until you tell us."
     There was a raspy sound from Kevin's throat and
his head turned slightly.  He raised one hand to his face.
"Skin, darker."
     "Darker than yours," noted Nick.  "All right.
What else?"
     "Eyes set apart, by at least an inch, maybe two.
Front teeth--gold one in left front."
     Nick cleared his throat.  "I think you're describing
the suspect who was killed last night."
     "Killed?"  Kevin's lips twisted in a frown and he
shifted again.  "He held me down.  The other one poured
the stuff in my eyes . . . ."  His left hand rose to the
bandages on his eyes, the cord connecting him to the IV
swaying slightly at the movement.
     "And what did that one look like?" asked Nick.
     "Skin--the same tone.  Eyes brown, upper lip short
and thin.  Eyelids heavy.  Five foot nine, maybe ten.
Needle marks on arms.  Skinny."
     "Maybe a heroin user."  Nick cleared his throat,
glancing at the doctor again, but Merrick simply stood
there, holding Kevin's right hand.  "What was he
wearing?"
     "Basketball T-shirt, no sleeves.  Blue and orange,
Chicago high school--didn't catch the name.  Jeans, dirty
and ripped.  Sneakers dirty, white with orange stripes."
Again, Kevin made a raspy noise in his throat and Nick
saw Merrick's hand tighten.  But Kevin shook his head.
"Pencil.  Paper."
     Nick swallowed, then looked at the doctor.  "He
wants a pencil and paper."  When Dr. Merrick looked at
him, an eyebrow raised, he added, "Kevin's a sketch
artist."
     The doctor's eyes darkened and he frowned.  He
took a pen from his coat pocket, then released Kevin's
hand and moved to a small table beside the bed, on which
sat two flower arrangements.  From the drawer he
withdrew a few pieces of stationary, then lifted the Bible
from the drawer and placed the paper atop the book.
     Carefully, the doctor rested the book on Kevin's
chest.  As Kevin shifted in an attempt to sit up, Dr.
Merrick said, "No--wait and I'll raise the bed for you.
You'll be more comfortable."  He touched the control on
the side of the bed and it raised, until Kevin nodded.
When he was settled, Dr. Merrick pressed the pen into his
right hand.
     Smiling, Kevin shifted the pen to his left hand.  He
felt it, frowning.  "Pen?" he asked.
     Nick had never felt so much at a loss for not
having a pencil.  "I can run back to the nurse's station --"
he offered.
     But Kevin shook his head.  "Probably suck worse
in pencil," he said.  He placed his right hand on the paper,
in an attempt to hold it flat, to keep it from moving.
     A clipboard would have helped tremendously, but
between Kevin's sheer determination and the
thunderclouds that loomed in Dr. Merrick's eyes, Nick
hesitated on mentioning that fact.  He watched in anguish
as Kevin tried to draw by touch alone.
     The lines were disjointed, disconnected.  Kevin
gritted his teeth, somehow knowing that the lines were
wrong but still trying.  He pressed hard against the stubbly
surface of the book cover, feeling the indentation of the
lines with his fingertips, then drawing from there.  The
sounds from deep in his throat were angry and
unintelligible.  After a moment, his hand began to shake.
But still, he continued to draw.
     "I think that's enough," said Dr. Merrick.  He
reached forward and tried to take the pen from Kevin's
hand, but Kevin held onto it tightly, shaking his head.  His
mouth opened and closed, the sound that came from him
close to a sob.
     Quickly, Nick moved forward and took the paper,
careful to leave the book where it was.  "Kevin, this is
fine."  Placing his free hand around Kevin's left hand, he
took care to avoid the IV line, which was still swinging
freely.  "It's a hell of a lot more than we had.  And it may
help us catch this guy."
     Kevin stopped struggling and after a moment, his
fingers slid from the pen.  He grabbed Nick's hand with his
own, both of his own.  "I'm . . . sorry," he said.  "I can't--I
can't--"
     "It's good," promised Nick.  "Really.  We had
nothing before.  You may have cracked the case."  As
Kevin's grip tightened around his, he choked back
something that seemed to lodge in his throat.  "We'll find
him.  I promise you--we'll find him."
     "It's time to go," said Dr. Merrick, not bothering
to hide the anger in his voice.
     Nick glanced up at him with a guilty expression,
then looked back at Kevin.  "Yeah.  Better get back to the
squad room before Stonetree puts out an APB on me.
Somebody's gotta keep Schanke outta the donuts, right?"
     Kevin gave him a forced smile.  "Right.  Yeah.
Thanks for stopping by."
     "I'll be back," Nick promised, focusing on Kevin,
not daring to meet Merrick's fiery gaze.  "As soon as I
can."  He withdrew his hand from Kevin's, but Kevin's
fingers tightened around his for a second.
     "I'm sorry," Kevin said again.  "I never got to see .
. . your paintings."
     Nick straightened suddenly; the lump in his throat
was now on the point of choking him.  "We'll set up
something," he said.  "We'll . . . work something out."
     "Yeah."  Kevin's hand fell from his.  "We will."
      "I'll be back to check on you later, Kevin," said
Dr. Merrick, touching Kevin's shoulder lightly.  "Try to
get some rest, okay?"
     Kevin's answer was little more than a low grunt.
But he settled back as Dr. Merrick took away the Bible,
replacing it in the drawer, and touched the bed controls to
lower the head area.  Nick stood at the doorway,
watching.  He clutched the paper to his chest with his left
hand.  His right still held the impression of Kevin's frantic
grip, but that was fading far faster than his memory ever
could.
     Dr. Merrick grabbed his arm on the way out,
opening the door and almost hurling him into the hallway.
Nick caught himself on the far side, then raised his hand to
tell the cop on duty that everything was all right--the man
was half out of his chair.
     "Why the hell didn't you tell me he was a sketch
artist?" demanded the doctor angrily, after the door had
closed behind them.
     Straightening, Nick looked around, noticing that
the raised voice was drawing attention.  "I didn't think
you'd have let me in there."
     "You're damned right I wouldn't have let you in
there!  I wouldn't have let you within twenty feet of him,
fifty feet of him."  Dr. Merrick ran his hand back through
his hair, still glaring at Nick.  "Do you have any idea what
you just did to him in there?"
     "I thought it would help--"
     "Help?  Christ, that kid's going to need enough
therapy, without you screwing with his mind."  The doctor
looked down at the floor and took a deep breath, as if
trying to collect himself.
     "I'm sorry," said Nick softly.  "I know what--I
know what he's going through."
     "You have no <idea> what he's going through."
When the doctor looked up, his voice was lower, but his
eyes were still hard and angry.  "I'd appreciate it,
<detective>, if you have your partner or someone else
deal with Kevin from now on.  Can you manage that?  Or
will I have to call your superior?"
     Nick straightened again and met the man's gaze.
"I'm with twenty-seventh division, Captain Stonetree.  I'm
only doing my job, Dr. Merrick.  Just like you're doing
yours.  And if it means anything, yes, I <do> know what
Kevin's going through.  I want to get the bastard that did
that to him.  <And> killed four other people last night."
     Feeling the gold on the edge of his vision, the
anger rising in him, he looked down, away, and ran the
back of his hand along his lips.  He wasn't about to lose it
here and now.  He had a case to work on, a description to
get on the wire.
     But when he looked back, Merrick was watching
him with an odd expression.  "Maybe you do know," he
admitted, after a second's pause.  "Family member?
Friend?"
     "Something like that," said Nick evasively.
     "All right.  So you know we've got to be careful
with him.  He's been told that his loss of sight is probably
permanent, but I don't think he's quite comprehended that.
What you just did was push him toward a truth he's not
ready to deal with."
     Nick only half heard the doctor's words.  As he
stared at Kevin's door, he could hear choking sobs from
within the room.  Closing his eyes, he bowed his head.
"You're right.  I didn't want--I never meant--"
     He opened his eyes and looked up as Merrick put
a hand on his shoulder.  "I know.  Just like I know that's
the first reaction I've gotten out of him.  If you want to
come back--"  Merrick hesitated, as Nick met his eyes,
expression hopeful.  "I'd like you to come back and visit
him.  Tomorrow, some time.  But--no artwork," warned
the doctor.
     "No artwork," promised Nick.  He managed a
weak smile and added. "Thanks," as he walked back to the
elevator.
     But the sound of Kevin's hoarse sobbing filled his
ears until the elevator doors closed behind him, drowning
out the sound of the machine as it started its descent.
Only then did he remember the paper still clutched in his
hand.
     Smoothing it carefully, Nick held it up against the
wall of the elevator.  It was nothing more than a series of
swirls and lines, looking more like the efforts of a two
year old with his first crayon than a young artist well on
the way to fulfilling the promise of his innate talent.
Something in him wanted to crumple up the paper, hurl it
to the floor in a fit of anger, destroy it.
     But something else, some sense of propriety and
respect for what had been lost stayed his hand.  When
Nick left the elevator and walked out the emergency exit
to his car, he held the paper flat against his chest,
protecting it from the ravages of a vagrant breeze or the
elements.  He protected it from the world as he hadn't be
able to protect Kevin.  And he thought again that there
might be something more he might do to redress the error
that chance had made in taking the young artist's sight.
 
 
 
Chapter 5
 
 
     As Nick entered her lab in the Coroner's Office,
Natalie looked up from her desk.  Her hair was tied back
tightly, but she was out of her greens and in her work
clothes.  He managed to form at least a half-hearted smile.
"Hi."
     "Hi, yourself," she countered.  Glancing back
down at her paperwork, she scribbled something then
dropped the pen to the desk and gestured toward a sheet-
covered corpse on a gurney.  "Just finished Edith Crewe."
     Nick walked over to the corpse.  He couldn't see
anything beneath the sheet, other than that amorphous
body shape that designated this person as one who had
passed out of life and into darkness.  "And?"
     "No surprise.  Shock and internal trauma caused
by ingesting toxic substances.  Poisoning."  Remaining
where he was, he heard her rise to her feet.  "The lab'll get
back with the exact mix of chemicals and brands, although
it won't be hard to connect everything to the dry-
cleaners."  When she sighed, he could almost feel her
breath at his shoulder.  "Four perfectly healthy people.
Poisoned."
     "And one blinded," reminded Nick, very softly.
     "Kevin Seeley?"
     "I just came from the hospital."
     Natalie took a quick breath.  "He's conscious?"
     "He gave me a description of the suspect."  Again
he forced the wan smile, looking over his shoulder and
meeting her gaze.  "A good description.  Solid.  It's on the
wire."
     Her eyes widened slightly.  "I'm surprised he could
talk."
     "He couldn't.  I read lips."
     "Oh."  And, when he parroted a silent, "Oh," back
at her, she smiled and shook her head.  "He must be pretty
well off, then.  Otherwise the doctor never would have
permitted--"
     Nick looked away as she mentioned the doctor.
Tucking his hands in his jacket pockets, his gaze fell on
the sheet-covered corpse again.
     "Nick?" pressed Natalie, suspicion coloring her
voice.  "The doctor <was> there, wasn't he?"
     "Oh, he was there.  And he pretty much had the
same assessment of the suspect you gave me last night--
we need to get this one locked up fast.  He told me I
could question Kevin, get a description."
     He didn't need to see her to know what her
expression might be, Natalie wasn't fooled by his evasions.
"What did you do?"
     Instinctively, he reached inside his coat pocket to
touch the piece of paper he'd so carefully folded.  "Kevin
asked for a pencil and paper.  He wanted to sketch the
subject for me."  When he turned, withdrawing the paper
from his jacket, Natalie's eyes were cold.  He held out the
paper and she took it.  "That's what he drew."
     Natalie opened the paper and turned her back to
him.  He watched her shoulders stiffen as she took in the
disconnected lines.  "The doctor didn't know Kevin was a
sketch artist.  You didn't tell him.  Nick--!"
     The disappointment in her tone lanced into him.  "I
needed a description.  You said yourself . . . ."
     Even to his ears it sounded lame.  Natalie turned,
still carefully holding the sketch.  "If I'd been that doctor,"
she said slowly, "I would have thrown you out on your
ass.  And then I would've called Stonetree."
     Her eyes looked up, questioning him.  Nick
managed a shrug.  "We came close," he admitted, after a
second.  Then, he looked down.  "I didn't realize what
would happen.  And Kevin--the doctor said that he's not
responding like he should.  But that's no excuse for
pushing him like that."
     Natalie placed a hand on his shoulder.  "I know
you won't believe me, but I have to say it anyway--Nick,
it's not <your> fault.  The best thing you can do to help
Kevin is support him.  Just be there.  That's why the
doctor didn't come down on you, he knows Kevin's going
to need all the friends he can get.  You don't have answers
and no one expects you to, least of all Kevin.  You can't
give him back his eyes."
     "Maybe . . . ."  Nick licked his lips, then dared a
glance at her.  "Maybe I can."
     It took a moment for his words to sink in.  Once
they did, he saw her thoughts flash behind her eyes, her
expression changing from surprise, to astonishment, to
anger.  "You're not thinking--"  He drew back from her,
turned away, but she turned him back to face her, her
hand still on his shoulder.  "No.  Tell me you're <not>."
     Nick shook off her hand and followed the
movement by stalking past her.  "It's the nature of the
beast," he said lightly.  "We're predatory.  Recent wounds
heal without a scar when you're brought across.  I've seen
twisted and crippled limbs straighten, amputated hands
and fingers grow back in some cases.  We're meant to
hunt.  That's why we're the way we are, that's why our
senses are sharp, perfect."  Only then did he face her,
needing her to understand.  "I can give him back his eyes."
     "But you'll kill him to do it."
     There was no sympathy in her gaze or expression.
"You said we're not dead," Nick reminded her softly.
     Her frown tightened into a grim line.  "Don't you
throw that back at me."  She pressed Kevin's drawing
against his chest and, as his hands moved to grab it, she
stalked away, furious.
     "Nat--"
     She whirled toward him, pointing her finger.
"You made me <beg> you to save Richard, to bring him
across."
     He winced at the hurt tone of her accusation.
Something tightened in his chest as he answered, "Look
how well that turned out."
     "And you're thinking about doing it <again>?"
She took a step forward, staring at him, as if trying to find
an answer in his expression.  "Why?  You hardly know
him.  Before last night, I don't think I've ever heard you
mention him."
     "He's . . . an artist," Nick said, after a second's
pause.  Natalie's expression didn't soften and he looked
away, trying to find sensible reasons for her when he'd had
found none for himself.  "He gave me one of his pictures,
a watercolor.  Nat, if you could see the light in that
picture, in his work--"
     "And you want to take the light away from him?"
     "He's lost it.  It's gone."
     "Only his sight is gone, but not the warmth of the
light, the taste of it, the feel of it.  If you bring him across,
he'll lose <that> instead."  When he refused to look at her,
Natalie moved closer.  "I can't believe you're even
entertaining the idea.  Nick, you know how hard you want
to get out of this.  And you want to make him like you?"
     Her fingers grabbed his free hand over the picture.
Nick looked down at his hand, then up to her eyes.  "He
wanted--he wanted to see my paintings."
     "That's the best reason I've heard so far."  As Nick
pulled away from her hand and her sarcasm, she followed
him around the gurney.  "What if you can't control him?
What if he's like . . . like Richard?"
     Her voice nearly broke on the last comment and
Nick stopped moving away from her.  Meeting her gaze,
he placed his hand on her shoulder, promising, "He won't
be like Richard."
     "No, he won't."  Natalie placed her hand over his.
"Richard didn't have a choice--I made it for him.  He was
dying.  But Kevin's <alive>."
     Nick looked down at the picture in his other hand.
"No.  No, he's not.  If you'd seen him when he drew this . .
. ."
     "That's to be expected.  It's going to take him time
to get through this.  And you'd be a better friend to him by
supporting him than turning him into--"  When he met her
eyes, she stopped in mid-sentence.
     "Into what?" asked Nick softly, his hand dropping
from her shoulder.  "A monster?  Like me?"
     "Into something that you or he can't control," said
Natalie firmly.  "Into something that you'll end up
destroying."
     Staring into her eyes, he saw that she was right--he
<couldn't> trust himself to turn Kevin.  There'd been
spectacular failures in his past attempts at bringing others
across into the darkness.  He wanted to save Kevin's sight,
save his light, not destroy him.  "You're right."
     Natalie smiled.  "I am?"
     "You are."  He raised a hand to touch her cheek
lightly, then took a step away from her, refolding Kevin's
drawing and placing it in his pocket.  "I'll find someone
else to do it."
     She took a breath, then released a choking sound
that was almost like a disbelieving laugh.  "You'll <what>?
Nick, that's crazy."
     "Crazy is some maniac taking away this man's life,
his talent.  It's not right to let this happen.  Not while I can
do something about it."
     "Can't you see that what you're doing is just as
bad, just as unfair?"
     Nick's sudden determination wavered, as this
seemingly sound answer began to show chinks much as
his earlier answer had.  "Not if I give him a choice."
     Natalie raised an eyebrow as he met her eyes.  "A .
. . choice.  Like you had?"
     "I was tricked," he said quickly.
     "And is Kevin going to say the same thing?"  He
winced and moved toward the door, but she followed,
catching his arm.
     "He'll have his sight back."
     "But what about tomorrow?  Or a month from
now?  Or a year?  Or five hundred years?"  Natalie
released her grip on his jacket and took a step back.
"Look, I can't support you in this.  I <won't> support you
in this.  And I won't help you.  But--"
     Nick met her eyes, searching them for some sign
of approval, some sign that told him that he <was> doing
the right thing.  "What?  Tell me."
     "Make sure you give him that choice."  Her eyes
wide, she added, "Nick, for the sake of your soul, tell him
the truth.  Tell him <everything>.  Because if this goes
wrong . . . ."
     "It <won't>," he promised.  Catching her hand, he
pressed her fingers to his lips.  "Thanks, Nat.  Thanks.
And I will," Nick called over her shoulder, as he headed
toward the door at a run.  "I'll tell him <everything>."
     He gave Grace a wave as he left, making his way
out of the Coroner's Office and building, down to the curb
and his Caddy.  He'd been right to talk to Nat; she'd given
him the answer.  This time <wouldn't> be like Richard
because Nick would find someone else to bring Kevin
across.
     Natalie had been right about giving Kevin a
choice. The sobbing he'd heard from Kevin's room still
echoed in his ears and only furthered his resolve to make
certain Kevin knew all of the pros and cons of this
alternate lifestyle before he made any decision.  Although
Nick was very certain what that decision would be--what
artist deprived of his sight wouldn't give the world for the
return of his eyes?
     For the return of the light.
 
***
 
     At first, his only thought was how his hands and
arms stung from being smacked against the hard wooden
steps to the cellar.  The bruises would heal quickly enough
once he fed, but for now there was a slight discomfort, a
tingling from the injured areas.
     The smooth planking of the wooden floor was
cold against his cheek.  The cellar of the house still
smelled faintly of beeswax and the oils and perfume that
were added to the candles once produced here.  The
chandler had left this house long before LaCroix had
acquired it, but those older scents still lingered, covering
the death smells left by the corpses stored in this cool
place when the river outside was too well frozen to
receive the fleshy remnants of their feedings.
     Nicholas couldn't quite bring his senses back to
order.  He heard the sounds of steps and voices--Janette's
was clear first, as her slippers tapped down the stairs and
across the floor.  "--I'll bring him something, then.  He
needs to feed--"
     "He'll feed after this madness passes.  He's strong
enough in this state--any stronger and he might harm
either of us.  Or should I let him drag you out into the
sunlight?"
     If she made any reply other than a fearful whimper,
it was drowned out by the clank of chain.  Cool metal
touched his wrist and Nicholas jerked his hand away,
trying to get his arm beneath him as he opened his eyes.
But a boot heel was planted along the side of his neck,
pinning him to the floor.
     LaCroix had snapped a heavy iron band around his
wrist.  Nicholas ignored LaCroix for a moment, his
unfocused eyes following the length of the chain attached
to the band, as it wound its way up the wall, through a
number of iron studs inserted in the plaster and brick, over
the beams and hooks where the rendering pot was once
swung over a round circle of stones.  When LaCroix
stepped away, releasing him, Nicholas tried to stumble to
his feet, but was caught up in the chain and crashed back
against the wall.  His fingers fumbled at the manacle
fastened around the ankle of his boot.
     "You can spend the day here, watching the light,"
said LaCroix.  "That's what you wanted, wasn't it?"
     Nicholas carefully disentangled his leg from the
chain and rose, his back against the wall.  LaCroix stood
not so far from him, arms folded across his chest.  Janette
posed beside him, her eyes first on LaCroix, then darting
to the barred window that sat high in the wall, near the
ceiling of the cellar.
     It could barely be called a window--it was just a
slit to allow some air into the space.  But it <did> allow
the light to enter; a small finger of brightness glared from
it and shone in a spot on the floor.
     Nicholas put his strength against the chain on his
arm, wrapping a few lengths around his wrist to prevent
the cuff from cutting him, but there was no give from any
of the wall studs or the chain itself.
     "Always thought that might come in handy," said
LaCroix.  "We did right not to clear out this mess when
we arrived.
     Inevitably, Nicholas gave up, panting.  "Let me
go."
     "When this madness has passed.  We'll check on
you after sunset."  LaCroix took a step toward the
stairwell.  "Janette?"
     She looked over her shoulder at him, then dashed
to Nicholas and put her arms around his neck.  "Oh, tell
him you'll behave," she pleaded softly and urgently,
pressing a kiss on his cheek.  "Nicola, tell him you'll be
good and won't go out into the sunlight."  Her hands
brushed over his face and his neck, his shoulders.  "Please,
tell him."
     "You have to try," he said, brushing her lips with
hers when she came close, kissing her hair.  "You <must>
try to walk in the light.  It will work today.  I <know> it
will."
     "Do you see?" said LaCroix.  He moved toward
them, back from the staircase, and held out his hand to
her.  "Come, Janette.  Or . . . would you like to stay down
here for the day?"
     She tightened her grip on his hair and his neck.
Nicholas could feel her body shudder against him as her
eyes moved to the growing spot of brightness on the
floor.  "LaCroix, let him go.  He'll burn in this place.  The
light will reach him by noon--"
     "He won't burn," promised LaCroix.  He pointed
toward a spot on the floor, quite close.  "It will reach here
and no further.  Now, leave Nicholas and come upstairs
with me."  When she didn't move at once, LaCroix leaned
forward and grabbed the metal chained cowl that held her
hair back from her face.  "Come!" he commanded.
     Janette was moving as he tugged at her hair.  The
chained hair covering ripped in his grasp, the metal links
stretching and breaking, scattering across the floor.  Her
dark hair fell free and the momentum sent her flying.
Nicholas strained as best he could against the chains that
held him, but could not touch her.  Before LaCroix could
do more than reach out for her, Janette tumbled to the
floor, landing in the area bright with sunlight.
     Her shriek reverberated against the stone walls,
deafening them for a brief second.  Throwing her hand in
front of her face, she continued to scream.  LaCroix
grabbed her arm and pulled her across the floor, out of
danger.
     But then Janette stopped screaming. LaCroix
looked down at his hand, which had entered the beam of
sunlight to grab hold of her--it was untouched.  His
expression was amazed and Nicholas strained against the
chains as Janette rose to her feet, equally astonished.
There was not a mark on her.  Her skin hadn't smoked or
burned or blistered.  The blue eyes she turned to him were
set in a face as smooth and unmarked as it had ever been.
     "That's what I was saying," he told them, the
hoarseness of his voice offset by joy.  "The light can't hurt
us today.  We can walk in the light until dusk."
     "Can we?"  LaCroix moved to stand beside the
patch of light.  After a moment's hesitation, he looked
over at Nicholas then moved his hand into the bright area
again.  Despite Janette's sudden cry of alarm, there was no
sign that anything was amiss--LaCroix did not burn.  "It
seems you might be right, Nicholas."  He drew his hand
back and touched it, running his other palm along the sun-
warmed skin.  "Perhaps further investigation's in order
after all."
     "Then, you'll let Nicola go?" asked Janette, as
LaCroix helped her to her feet.
     Nicholas held his breath as LaCroix's steel gray
eyes met his across the distance of the basement.  The
corner of LaCroix's mouth curled into a slight smile as he
said, "Not yet.  Not until I'm certain he's free of this
madness.  And that this business is what it seems."
     "You can't leave me here!" cried Nicholas, the
chains clanking as he strained against them, trying to pull
himself away from the wall.  "You've seen it yourself, the
light can't hurt us today."
     "But you might hurt yourself," said LaCroix.
"And that I won't allow."  With a firm grasp on Janette's
shoulder, he led her to the stairs.  "Come, Janette--let's
test out Nicholas' theory, shall we?"
     "No!  You can't leave me!" he cried.  Forgetting
himself, he released the slack on the chain as they moved
up the steps slowly, Janette daring to give him a sad,
sympathetic glance over her shoulder.  The rough edge of
the metal cuff cut into his skin and drew blood, but he
ignored it.  "No!"
     "Until later," called LaCroix.  The heavy wooden
door to the upper floor slammed shut, the booming sound
echoing in the darkness.
     Nicholas pulled at the length of chain, then
squatted and tried his hand at the cuff at his ankle, but
neither was going to give.  He looked up, only to see that
LaCroix had been right--as the sun rose, the square of
light on the floor had moved.  It was harmless, but he
couldn't reach it, chained as he was.
     "No," he whispered, eyes scanning the length of
the links again for any sign of weakness.  But much as he
pulled or tested them, there was no chance of give.  The
studs in the wall remained fixed and solid, meant to hold a
rendering pot that could have weighed as much as fifty
men.
     "No!  You can't leave me here!" he bellowed, at
the top of his lungs.  "LaCroix!"
     His calls went unanswered, even though Nicholas
shouted until his voice grew hoarse and his lips could no
longer form words.
     And still the light shone brightly, moving across
the floor just beyond his reach.
 
 
 
Chapter 6
 
 
     The memory of that morning made his throat dry
and he knew he'd be tempted to accept Janette's standing
offer of a drink--it would be from the stock she kept on
hand for him and not her own libation preference.  But as
he passed the bouncer, thoughts of feeding were drowned
out by the pulsating music.
     Dancers were few and far between at The Raven.
Nick threaded his way easily through the club, a half-smile
on his lips as he nodded to this or that regular.  They
recognized him as one of their own--even the mortals who
frequented the club had grown to accept his occasional,
brief visits.  In fact, a brunette at the bar smiled at him,
raising her glass in his direction.
     There was a tap on his shoulder and Nick turned
quickly, but not quickly enough as Janette danced out of
his reach.  "What is it about you that so attracts them?"
she cooed, inclining her head toward the mortal woman at
the bar.
     "Maybe you can tell me," he countered.
     As he walked toward her, Janette continued to
back away, her movements slow and careful, in time to
the beat of the music.  She turned her back to him.  "Ah,
now that might take some time.  But then, we have
eternity, no?"
     The glance she gave him over her shoulder was
smoldering, filled with promise and passion.  Nick looked
away, back to the woman at the bar, then to some safer,
darker portion of the club.  "That's not why I'm here."
     "No?" Janette sighed. "Then it must be <work>
again.  Nicola, you're becoming such a bore--"
     He caught her wrist before she could escape him
and slid his other hand down to her waist.  In three steps
and a twirl, he waltzed her into a quiet corner of the club.
"Not work either," he said, as she leaned back against the
wall.  He placed his arm over her head, all but pinning her
in place.  "It's personal."
     "Hmmmmn.  Now you're beginning to intrigue
me."  Janette touched a lace-gloved finger to her choker
and met his eyes, her smile sharp.  "Personal, but <not>
personal?"
     "I want to bring someone across."
     A veil seemed to fall across her eyes and she
covered her mouth with her hand prettily, pretending to
yawn.  "I was right, <boring>.  You've tried this recently.
And failed.  Miserably."  Slipping beneath his arm, she
headed away, saying, "LaCroix is right, you <never> learn
from your mistakes."
     "Oh, I learn," said Nick.  He planted his hand on
her shoulder before she could get too far and turned her to
face him.  "Which is why I'm not going to bring him
across."
     "Him?"  Janette shook his hand from her shoulder
with a shrug, but didn't stalk off; he could see that she was
still intrigued.  "Another 'relative'?"
     "An artist."
     Again, she touched her finger lightly to her choker,
turning from him and taking a step away.  "Perhaps.  It
has promise.  Tell me, then--if you don't plan to bring
across this artist, then who--?"
     "I want you to do it."
     She whirled at his words, staring in disbelief.  But
when Nick met her gaze evenly, she shook her head, a
slight smile creasing her lips.  "I almost believe you're
serious."
     "I <am> serious."  He caught her hand in his.  "
I've made too many mistakes.  I can't afford to fail this
time.  That's why I want you to do it."
     "Even supposing I'd do something this outrageous-
-"  She looked away from him, then shrugged, her smile
dismissive.  "It wouldn't work.  I told you--I get greedy.  I
wouldn't stop in time."
     "I'd stop you," he promised fervently.
     Her blue eyes were wide as she looked back to
him.  Biting lightly on her lip, she searched his eyes, his
face, as if looking for something hidden.  "I think you
might try.  And, maybe succeed.  But--"  Janette shook
her head and removed her hand from his, folding her arms,
"No.  I've got the club to amuse me for now.  A fledgling
would only be a distraction.  An annoyance."
     "I'll help you care for him.  Teach him."
     Again her eyes widened.  "Nicola, what <has>
come over you?  The last time you were here, you
wouldn't admit that you owed your own any debt beyond
giving them life.  And now you not only want me to bring
someone across, you're willing to care for him until he's
ready to go out on his own?"
     There was still a raw place inside him from what
had happened to Richard.  Nick looked away quickly and
swallowed, wondering again if there was something he
might have done to have spared Richard, spared Natalie,
from the madness that had overtaken the newly-made
vampire.  "Yes," he admitted, after a moment's pause.
Then he met her eyes hopefully.  "With your help."
     Again, he felt himself measured by her gaze.
Janette walked around him, finger to her lips, eyes on him.
"With my . . . help.  And you would stay and watch over
him?  Leave your little 'job' if need be?  Because that's
possible, you know.  The new ones must be watched
constantly, coached carefully."
     "Yes, yes," he agreed, throwing his hands in the
air.  "Fine.  Whatever it takes.  Will you do it?"
     Janette stopped and took a step toward him--it
took more willpower than he wanted to admit to not back
away from her.  "Who is he?"
     "An artist."
     "As you said."  Her eyes were suspicious as she
brushed past him.  "Where did you meet?"
     "He's a police sketch artist at the station."  When
she continued to walk around him, waving her hand in an
indication that she wanted more information, he turned in
place, following her movements.  "There was a botched
robbery at a dry-cleaners the other night.  He was
blinded."
     "Ah, yes.  So I'd heard--but not about the
blinding."  She shook her head when his eyes widened in
surprise.  "Oh, you needn't be that way.  I <do> read the
papers and keep abreast of the news, from time to time."
     "When it amuses you."
     "<Don't> be clever," she scolded, stopping long
enough to shake her finger in his face.  "You're asking the
favor, not me."
     He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips.
"I know.  And I'm grateful."
     Janette snatched her hand away quickly.  "I haven't
said yes, yet."  She turned her back to him, looking out
over the club.  "Tuesday nights are always slow," she said
absently.  "Almost as bad as Mondays.  Alma had some
nonsensical idea about putting in a taco bar for happy
hour, but I haven't had a yen for Mexican in some time."
     Nick moved to stand behind her and placed his
arms around her.  Automatically, her hands reached up to
touch his.  "Janette--"
     "I'm <thinking>."  She glanced sideways at him.
"He's some sort of witness, isn't he?  Is that why you're
doing it, then?  Because you need a witness to finger your
'suspect'?"
     "He's already given us a description," said Nick
quietly.  "And I'd be the last one to want to bring a
fledgling into a courtroom packed with mortals.  Besides,
the trial would be held during the day--"
     "Impossible.  Yes, I see."  But she continued to
stare at him, even as he looked out at the club over her
shoulder.  "Then <why>?"
     "Because it's not fair."
     When he turned to meet her eyes, he saw the
beginning of a smile playing along the line of her lips.  "It's
. . . not fair?"
     He nodded and when he saw her smile widen,
added, "He's good.  Or will be.  There's no reason for this
to happen, for him to waste that gift, if I can give his sight
back to him.  He gave me one of his paintings--Janette,
you should see the <light> in it!"
     Her hand reached up to touch his cheek and he
saw the vaguest shadow of sorrow in her blue eyes.  "And
you want to give him eternal darkness, instead?"
     The words were almost an echo of Natalie's and
that sameness scared him.  Releasing her, he took a step
backward.  "If you won't--"
     "I didn't say that."  Janette stood where she was,
hands resting lightly on either shoulder, as if his arms were
still around her.  "I need to understand, I think, why this is
so important to you.  There are so many injustices, so
many things you see that are 'not fair.'  I need to know
why this one is different."
     "He asked to see my paintings."
     It sounded so stupid, so insipid.  Nick winced and
half-turned, expecting to get the same reaction he'd gotten
from Natalie.
     From Janette there was only a moment's pause.
She turned her head as her hands fell away from him, her
eyes <not> holding derision, or sarcasm, or contempt.
"Did he?" she asked softly.  "Did he see them?"
     Nick shook his head and looked down at the floor.
"No--there wasn't time.  It was only last night.  I promised
to set something up sometime next week.  But . . . ."
     Janette walked toward him, her steps slow.  When
she was close enough, she placed one arm around him,
hugging him, then tilted his head toward hers by touching
the side of his chin.  "All right," she said, meeting his eyes.
"But we'll set some ground rules.  I'm not about to do this
alone.  I will be his ma<ma>, but you <will> be his
pa<pa>.  You needn't give up your life just yet . . . we'll
see how it goes.  But if you fail to fulfill your part of the
bargain, Nicola, I'll destroy him.  And it will be a <very>
long time before I'll speak to you, if ever again.  Do you
understand?"
     In response, he leaned forward and pressed his lips
against hers, his arms moving around her, pulling her
close.  There wasn't any necessity for breath and life had
passed them by, but with that kiss he promised to uphold
his end of the bargain.
     Oddly enough, she pulled back first, her blue eyes
opening and staring into his.  She moved her hand lightly
along the side of her neck.  "If I'd known you were going
to be so grateful, I might have agreed sooner.  You must
make these things clear in future, Nicola.  There should be
no misunderstandings between us over this."
     But before he could kiss her lips, or that tender
spot on her neck that she had bared, Janette slipped out of
his grasp.  Her hand fluttered at her neck, adjusting her
choker.  "If he's been injured, he should be brought across
soon, before his body acclimates to the injury.  Tonight?"
     Nick hesitated, remembering Natalie's objections,
then brushed them aside.  "Tomorrow night," he
corrected.  "He's still an eyewitness, which means he's
under guard.  And he's in the hospital."
     Janette's eyes narrowed.  "You're not going to
make this easy, are you?"  But then she turned away,
waving her hand.  "No--never mind.  All right.  Tomorrow
night.  I'll trust you to come up with a plan, you were
always good at that.  You may come for me here."
     Again, he stepped up behind her, kissing her bared
neck lightly.  "You won't regret it."
     Before he could move away, she caught his hair
with her hand and met his eyes, holding him in place.
"See that I don't," she warned.  Then, smiling slightly, she
turned her gaze back to the dance floor and released him.
"Nicola--one last thing.  Is he handsome?"
     "Would you trust me to judge?"
     She cast a disdainful glance over her shoulder at
him and sniffed.  "No," she decided after a second's pause.
"But if he's ugly, I won't do it."
     "You'll do it," said Nick, seeing the glimmer of
humor beneath the callous look in her eyes.  "You'll do it
for me."
     "For you?"  Janette raised an eyebrow, then her
lips curled into a slight smile.  "Yes.  Perhaps.  For you."
     It was as much of a polite dismissal as he was
going to receive.  He went back to kiss her neck again,
then ran for the door as she gasped aloud in astonishment
and mock-outrage.  Once outside he felt like flying, his
heart was so light within him.  And, if the Caddy hadn't
been waiting there and his shift not yet half over, he might
very well have taken to the sky.
     But he slipped behind the wheel and turned the
key in the ignition.  He wouldn't let Kevin be left alone in
the dark, as he'd been.  Kevin <would> have the light
again, even if he had to settle for city streetlights and
stars, instead of the blazing sun.
 
 
***
 
     The chains had enough slack so that he could sit.
After a time, Nicholas did so; his knees gave way, so that
he sank down against the wooden floor, then back against
the cool stone of the wall.
     And all the while he watched the light as it moved
along the floor, the dawn becoming morning and the
morning stretching toward noon.  The dark, stained wood
changed as the light passed over it, glowing glossy and
new for some short time, warmed by the glow.
     He'd never sat and watched the light before.  Not
like this.  Not when he was alive, certainly, when light had
meant work to be done, men to be killed, ground to be
fought over and won . . . or lost.  The night had been a
time of rest, of cleaning weapons in the field and finding
food where one could until the body would simply refuse
to move any more and sleep blended darkness into the
first pale stirrings of day.
     Nor after he'd passed into this life of endless night
had the light been anything but a curse--something that
could harm him, kill him.  It was right that he should fear
the brilliance of the sun, for he was damned and a creature
of the dark.  But when he began to doubt that salvation
was beyond him, when he began to have hope that
perhaps the light he'd squandered to obtain this hellish
existence wasn't gone for eternity as he'd thought, the
light had changed again.
     There was a cold place within him, in the center of
his being, in his soul.  As Nicholas watched the light he
felt it waken, felt it stir.  And there was nothing more
important to him at that moment than to touch the light,
to prove to himself that there would be a time when even
his too-flawed flesh would not burn.
     Eyeing the chain, he eased the slack of it down to
the cuff on his arm.  He reached forward, kneeling, then
lying full length upon the floor.  At first he was too far
away, but he crawled like a worm on his stomach, kicking
away from the wall until the chain attached to his ankle
would let him move closer.  Then he looked ahead, to the
light.
     It was beyond him still, no matter how hard he
strained and stretched the muscles of his arm, the sinews
that bound his fingers to his hand.  A low moan escaped
him as he realized that he could move no farther and he
dropped his forehead to the old wood and closed his eyes,
feeling that cold place within him unfurl in the darkness.
     Nicholas rolled over on his side, the strength gone
from him.  The struggle with LaCroix and the fact that he
hadn't fed for days, or so it seemed, left him weary,
without resource.  He simply had nothing left with which
to try.
     When all seemed hopeless, he realized that the
light was still moving toward him.  No more than a few
grained sections of floor at a time, but it <was> still
moving.
     Again, he scrambled onto his stomach, reaching as
far as he could.  The rough metal cuff cut into his wrist
again, scraping open and deepening the tears in his skin.
But not even the scent of the blood could distract him, as
he fixed his eyes, his gaze, his being on the light.
     Seconds and minutes became hours; his muscles
cramped, uncramped, and cramped again.  There was no
such thing as time and if it did exist, it didn't touch him.
Through sheer power of will Nicholas refused to move,
the twitch of his fingers toward the light the only sign of
life his body could or would muster.  It seemed so close,
he could almost feel the warmth on his fingertips, the
glow from the dim winter sun seeming brighter than a
fireball on the darkest night.  He dared to smile in hope,
dared to pray for moments on end, as the light seemed so
near.
     But then he knew the truth--that the sun had
passed its zenith and had gone beyond the range of the
window.  The square of light was moving away from him.
Slowly, yes, but it <was> edging back toward the
window, beyond his grasp.
     His last effort was the mightiest of all.  With a cry
of rage he flung himself against the chains, across the
floor.  Bones snapped in his foot, even beneath the
protection of the leather boot, as he drew upon every link
of slack he could find.  His wrist and arm bled freely, the